tered by the same voice which, but
a few moments, ago had stirred his soul to its very depths; they came
from the same lips which, in silence, had seemed to him like the mouth
of the Medusa of Leonardo, that human flower of the soul rendered divine
by the fire of passion and the anguish of death. What then was the true
essence of this creature? Had she perception and consciousness of her
manifold changes, or was she impenetrable to herself and shut from her
own mystery? In her expression, her manifestation of herself, how much
was artificial and how much spontaneous? The desire to fathom this
secret pierced him even through the delight experienced by the proximity
of the woman whom he was beginning to love. But his wretched habit of
analysis for ever prevented him losing sight of himself, though every
time he yielded to its temptation he was punished, like Psyche for her
curiosity, by the swift withdrawal of love, the frowns of the beloved
object and the cessation of all delights. Would it not be better to
abandon oneself frankly to the first ineffable sweetness of new-born
love? He saw Elena in the act of placing her lips to a glass of pale
gold wine like liquid honey. He selected from among his own glasses the
one the servant had filled with the same wine, and drank at the same
moment that she did. They replaced their glasses on the table together.
The similarity of the action made them turn to one another, and the
glance they exchanged inflamed them far more than the wine.

'You are very silent,' said Elena, affecting a lightness of tone which
somewhat disguised her voice. 'You have the reputation of being a
brilliant conversationalist--exert yourself therefore a little!'

'Oh cousin! cousin!' exclaimed Donna Francesca with a comical air of
commiseration, while Filippo del Monte whispered something in his ear.

Andrea burst out laughing.

'Cavaliere Sakumi; we are the silent members of this party--we must wake
up!'

The long narrow eyes of the Asiatic--redder than ever now that the wine
had kindled a deeper crimson on his high cheek-bones--glittered with
malice. All this time he had done nothing but gaze at the Duchess of
Scerni with the ecstatic look of a _bonze_ in presence of the divinity.
His broad flat face, which might have come straight out of a page of
O-kou-sai, the great classical humorist, gleamed red among the chains of
flowers like a harvest moon.

'Sakumi is in love,' said Andrea in a low voice, a