She was so gracious and sweet in the pouring of it out, when presently it came, and the elderly waiter seemed so sympathetic, and it was all gay and bright with the late afternoon sun streaming upon them. "The garcon takes us for a honeymoon couple," Hector said; "he sees you have beautiful new clothes, and that we have not yet begun to yawn with each other." But Theodora had not this view of honeymoons. To her a honeymoon meant a nightmare, now happily a thing of the past, and almost forgotten. "Do not speak of it," she said, and she put out her hands as if to ward off an ugly sight, and Hector bent over the table and touched her fingers gently as he said: "Forgive me," and he raged within himself. How could he have been so gauche, so clumsy and unlike himself. He had punished them both, and destroyed an illusion. He meant that she should picture herself and him as married lovers, and she had only seen--Josiah Brown. They both fell into silence and so finished their repast. "I want you to walk now," Hector said, "through some delicious allees where I will show you Enceladus after he was struck by the thunders of Zeus. You will like him, I think, and there is fine greensward around him where we can sit awhile." "I was always sorry for him," said Theodora; "and oh, how I would like to go to Sicily and see AEtna and his fiery breath coming forth, and to know when the island quakes it is the poor giant turning his weary side!" To go to Sicily--and with her! The picture conjured up in Hector's imagination made him thrill again. Then he told her about it all, he charmed her fancy and excited her imagination, and by the time they came to their goal the feeling of jar had departed, and the dangerous sense of attraction--of nearness--had returned. It was nearly seven o'clock, and here among the trees all was in a soft gloom of evening light. "Is not this still and far away?" he said, as they sat on an old stone bench. "I often stay the whole morning here when I spend a week at Versailles." "How peaceful and beautiful! Oh, I would like a week here, too!" and Theodora sighed. "You must not sigh, beautiful princess," he implored, "on this our happy day." The slender lines of her figure seemed all drooping. She reminded him more than ever of the fragment of Psyche in the Naples Museum. "No, I must not sigh," she said. "But it seems suddenly to have grown sad--the air--what does it mean? Tell me, you who know so many things?" There was a pathos in her voice like a child in distress. It communicated itself to him, it touched some chords in his nature hitherto silent. His whole being rushed out to her in tenderness. "It seems to me it is because the time grows nearer when we must go back to the world. First to dinner with the others, and then--Paris. I would like to stay thus always--just alone with you."