ch was concentrated all the tenderness of a soul wholly occupied by
this one absorbing affection. But at those words, that look, that
caress, Andrea felt a sudden stab of jealousy, something like a rebuff,
as if her heart were turning away from him, eluding him, becoming
inaccessible.

The governess asked permission to return to the villa, and the three
turned into a path bordered by orange-trees. Delfina ran on in front
with her hoop, her straight slender little legs in their long black
stockings, moving with rhythmic grace.

'You seem a little out of spirits now,' said Donna Maria to her
companion, 'and only a little while ago, when you came down, you seemed
so bright. Is something troubling you?--do you not feel so well?'

She put these questions in an almost sisterly manner soberly and kindly,
inviting his confidence. A timid desire, a vague temptation assailed the
invalid to slip his arm through hers, and let her lead him in silence
through the flickering shadows and the perfumes, over the flower-strewn
ground, down the pathways measured off at intervals by ancient
moss-grown statues. He seemed, all at once, to have returned to the
first days of his illness, those never-to-be-forgotten days of happy
languor and semi-unconsciousness, and felt as if he had great need of a
friendly support, an affectionate, a familiar arm. The desire grew so
intense that the words which would give it voice rushed to his lips.
However he merely replied--

'No, Donna Maria, thank you, I feel quite well. It is only that the
September weather rather affects me.'

She looked at him as if she rather doubted the sincerity of his reply;
but, to avoid an awkward silence after his evasive remark, she asked--

'Which of the neutral months do you like best--April or September?'

'Oh, September. It is more feminine, more discreet, more
mysterious--like a Spring seen in a dream. Then all the plants slowly
lose their vital forces, and, at the same time, some of their reality.
Look at the sea over there--has it not more the appearance of an
atmosphere than of a solid mass of water? And never, to my mind, does
the union of sea and sky seem so mystical, so profound as in September.'

They had very nearly reached the end of the path. Why should Andrea be
suddenly seized with a tremor of nervous fear on approaching the spot
where, a fortnight ago, he had written the sonnets on his deliverance?
Why this struggle between hope and anxiety lest she s