erness
apparently born of irresistible impulse showing itself in little wilful
sallies, a glance or touch, seemingly instantly regretted, and followed
by alternations of reticence. He admitted her bewitching but had no idea
that he was himself bewitched. His was a literary passion. He was a
student of life as well as of books, and he had never before had the
opportunity of studying such glorious examples of both at close range.

He completed his portrait of his ideal heroine Portia, the noblest that
he ever depicted, and found to his surprise that quite another type of
woman was forming itself in his mind. Powerful outside influences
mingled their impressions with the long-stifled hunger in his heart. He
was not in love with his hostess, but he was starving for love, and each
book that he read, every object of art that he looked upon, and nature
itself was steeped with the charm and passion of Italy. If he tossed
aside Boccaccio and his too suggestive _confreres_ to seek refreshment
in the garden it was only to find himself face to face with the famous
statue of the most seductive of all women, she who made Caesar her slave
and Antony her "floor-cloth."

She obtruded herself upon him everywhere, for his very bed

was hanged
With tapestry of silk and silver,
the story
Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman.

He had read with Marie de' Medici the history of the Egyptian Queen, and
had brooded over it until against his will something of the fascination
of the "Serpent of Old Nile" invested his comrade, and the name of
Antony ever after called up in her memory also the inspired face of her
fellow-student in the dangerous science of love.

Realising vaguely the influence which like some mephitic perfume, an
opiate of the soul, emanated from the purely literary reconstruction of
such a character, he laid it aside for the heart-breaking story of
Giulietta, whose very innocence moved him still more profoundly.

It was midsummer, the quivering July heat brought out the pungent scent
of the freshly clipped box-hedges, and set the mad flood stirring as in
the brief action of the play. During the day the white glare drove the
guests of the garden festivals into the shadiest recesses of the cypress
labyrinths. The flowers themselves seemed to have vanished from the
parterres, or, like the Cereus, bloomed only at night, plainly visible
under the luminous sky, when the nightinga