luttered like butterflies over the keys, then in answer to
some strain, an aria from the _Regina di Golconda_ had visited her--the
_Bel paese, ciel ridente_, which she had hummed softly to herself,
unconscious of any significance in the words. But presently she fell to
wondering about the fair land, the fairer sky which the song recalled.
Something there was that kept telling her that she had met Adrian
before. In his voice she had caught an inflection that was not
unfamiliar to her. In the polar-light of his eyes was a suggestion of
earlier acquaintance. His infrequent gestures brought her the shadow of
a reminiscence. And in his face there was an expression that haunted
her. For a while she struggled with memory. But memory is a magician
that declines to be coerced. Now and then it will pull its victim by the
sleeve, as it had pulled at Eden, yet turn to interrogate and a dream is
not more evanescent. But still she struggled with it. A silence, an
attitude, a combination purely atmospheric had evoked a charm, and
though memory declined to return and undo the spell, still she labored
until at last, conscious of the futility of the effort, or else wearied
by the endeavor, she consoled herself as in similar circumstances we all
of us have done with the mirage of anterior life.

The possibility of recognition she then put behind her, but the man
remained. There was a magnificence about him which disconcerted her, an
air that appealed. In some way his evening dress had seemed an
incongruity. She told herself that he would look better in a silken
pourpoint, and better still in the chlamys-robe of state. She decided
that he needed a dash of color, some swirling plume of red, and fell to
wondering what his life had been. It was evident to her that he had been
gently bred. About him the feminine influence was discernible, one no
doubt which begun at the cradle had continued ever since. In the absence
of a mother there had been someone else, a sister, perhaps, and a
procession of sweethearts to whom he had been swain. But the latter
possibility she presently dismissed. Love-making is the occupation of
those that have none, and Arnswald's hours were seemingly well-filled.
In Salem he might have left a combustible maiden, he might even have
found one in New York, but in that case Eden felt tolerably sure that he
had little time in which to apply the match. And then at once her fancy
took a tangential flight; a little romance unrol