hants used to call 'rosa di
gruogo,' saffron red, contributed to its inviting easiness.

Elena seated herself in it, placing on the tea-table beside her her
right hand glove and her card-case, a fragile toy in polished silver
with a device and motto engraven on it. She then proceeded to remove her
veil, raising her arms high to unfasten the knot, her graceful attitude
throwing gleams of changeful light on the velvet of her coat, along the
sleeves and over the contour of her bust. The heat of the fire was very
strong, and with her bare hand, which shone transparent like rosy
alabaster, she screened her face from it. The rings on her fingers
glittered in the firelight.

'Please screen the fire,' she said, 'it is really too fierce.'

'What--have you lost your fondness for the flames?--and you used to be a
perfect salamander. This hearth is full of memories----'

'Let memory sleep,--do not stir the embers,' she interrupted him.
'Screen the fire and let us have some light. I will make the tea.'

'Won't you take off your coat?'

'No, I must go directly--it is late.'

'But you will be melted.'

She rose with a little gesture of impatience. 'Very well then--help me,
please.'

As he helped her off with the mantle, Andrea noticed that the scent was
not the same as the familiar one of old. However, it was so delicious
that it thrilled his every sense.

'You have a new scent,' he said with peculiar emphasis.

'Yes,' she answered simply, 'do you like it?'

Andrea still held the mantle in his hands. He buried his face in the fur
collar which had been next her throat and her hair--'What is it called?'
he inquired.

'It has no name.'

She re-seated herself in the arm-chair within the circle of the
firelight. Her dress was of black lace, on which sparkled a mass of tiny
jet and steel beads.

The day was fading from the windows. Andrea lit candles of twisted
orange-coloured wax in wrought-iron candlesticks, after which he drew a
screen before the fire.

During this pause, both felt a certain perplexing uneasiness; Elena was
no longer exactly conscious of the moment, nor was she quite mistress of
herself. In spite of all her efforts she was unable to recall with
precision her motives for coming here, to follow out her
intentions--even to regain her force of will. In the presence of this
man to whom, once upon a time, she had been bound by such passionate
ties, and in this spot where she lived the most ardent moments o