o subtle as hardly to have any physical origin--as if some
magnetic fluid, issuing from her heart, diffused itself through her arm
to her fingers and there flowed forth in a wave of ineffable sweetness.
When Andrea ceased speaking, certain words of his, uttered on that
memorable morning in the park and revived by the recent sound of his
voice, returned to her memory--'Your mere presence suffices to
intoxicate me--I feel it flowing through my veins like blood, flooding
my soul with nameless emotion----'

There was an interval of silence. From time to time, a gust of wind
shook the window-panes and bore fitfully with it the distant roar of the
city and the rumbling of carriage wheels. The light was cold and limpid
as spring water; shadows were gathering thickly in the corners of the
room and in the folds of the Oriental curtains; from pieces of
furniture, here and there, came gleams of ivory and mother-of-pearl; a
great gilded Buddha shone out of the background under a tall palm.
Something of the exotic mystery of these things was diffused over the
drawing-room.

'And what do you suppose is going to become of me now?' asked Andrea.

She seemed lost in perplexing thought. There was a look of irresolution
on her face as if she were listening to two contending voices.

'I cannot describe to you,' she answered, passing her hand over her eyes
with a rapid gesture, 'I cannot describe to you the strange foreboding
that has weighed upon me for a long time past. I do not know what it is,
but I am _afraid_.'

Then, after a pause--'Oh, to think that you may be suffering, sick at
heart,--my poor darling--and that I can do nothing to ease your pain,
may not be with you in your hour of anguish--may not even know that you
have called me--_Mio Dio!_'

There was a quiver of tears in her breaking voice. Andrea hung his head
but did not speak.

'To think that my spirit will follow you always, always, and yet that it
may never, never mingle with yours, will never, never be understood by
you!--Alas, poor love!'

Her voice was full of tears and her mouth was drawn with pain.

Ah, do not desert me--do not desert me!' cried the young man, seizing
her two hands and half-kneeling at her feet, a prey to overwhelming
excitement--'I will never ask anything of you--I want nothing but your
pity. A little pity from you is more--far more--to me than passionate
love from any other woman--you know it. Your hand alone can heal me, can
bring me ba