nstead of very witty things with a
studied look of indifference. The hundred and fifty generations of men,
more or less, that separate us moderns from the days of Eden, never
found out that those are the very moments at which a woman first feels
her power, and that it is much less dangerous to bore her just then than
before or afterwards. It is a rare delight to her to feel that her mere
look can turn careless wit to earnest foolishness. For nothing is ever
more in earnest than real folly, except real love.

"You always say nice things," Cecilia answered, and Guido was pleasantly
surprised, for he had been quite sure that the silly compliment was
hardly worth answering.

"And you are always kind," he said gratefully. "Always the same," he
added after a moment, with a little accent of regret.

"Am I? You say it as if you wished I might sometimes change. Is that
what you mean?"

She looked down at her hands, that lay in her lap motionless and white,
one upon the other, on the delicate dove-coloured stuff of her frock;
and her voice was rather low.

"No," Guido answered. "That is not what I mean."

"Then I do not understand," she said, neither moving nor looking up.

Guido said nothing. He leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees, and
stared down at the Persian rug that lay before the sofa on the smooth
matting. It was warm and still in the great room.

"Try and make me understand."

Still he was silent. Without changing his position he glanced at the
open door of the boudoir. The Countess was invisible and inaudible.
Guido could hear the young girl's soft and regular breathing, and he
felt the pulse in his own throat. He knew that he must say something,
and yet the only thing he could think of to say was that he loved her.

"Try and make me understand," she repeated. "I think you could."

He started and changed his position a little. He had been accustomed so
long to the belief that if he spoke out frankly the thread of his
intercourse with her would be broken, that he made a strong effort to
get back to the ordinary tone of their conversation.

"Do you never say absurd things that have no meaning?" he asked, and
tried to laugh.

"It was not what you said," Cecilia answered quietly. "It was the way
you said it, as if you rather regretted saying that I am always the
same. I should be sorry if you thought that an absurd speech."

"You know that I do not!" cried Guido, with a little indignation. "We
understa