“As I am, I can see no reason why you shouldn’t make furious love to me, if it would amuse you. There’s no harm in firing your pistol at a person who’s bullet-proof,” she laughed. “No; it’s merely a wanton waste of powder and shot,” said he. “However, I shouldn’t stick at that. The deuce of it is.... You permit the expression?” “I’m devoted to the expression.” “The deuce of it is, you profess to be married.” “Do you mean to say that you, with your unprincipled foreign notions, would be restrained by any such consideration as that?” she wondered. “I shouldn’t be for an instant—if I weren’t in love with you.” “Comment donc? Déjà?” she cried with a laugh. “Oh, déjà! Why not? Consider the weather—consider the scene. Is the air soft, is it fragrant? Look at the sky—good heavens!—and the clouds, and the shadows on the grass, and the sunshine between the trees. The world is made of light today, of light and colour, and perfume and music. Tutt’ intorno canta amort amor, amore! What would you have? One recognises one’s affinity. One doesn’t need a lifetime. You began the business at the Wohenhoffens’ ball. To-day you’ve merely put on the finishing touches.” “Oh, then I am the woman you met at the masked ball?” she cried. “Look me in the eye, and tell me you’re not,” he defied her. “I haven’t the faintest interest in telling you I’m not. On the contrary, it rather pleases me to let you imagine that I am.” “She owed me a grudge, you know. I hoodwinked her like everything,” he confided. “Oh, did you? Then, as a sister woman, I should be glad to serve as her instrument of vengeance. Do you happen to have such a thing as a watch about you?” she inquired. “Yes,” he said. “Will you be good enough to tell me what o’clock it is?” “What are your motives for asking?” “I’m expected at home at five.” “Where do you live?” “What are the motives for asking?” “I want to call upon you.” “You might wait till you’re invited.” “Well, invite me—quick!” “Never.” “Never?” “Never, never, never,” she asseverated. “A man who’s forgotten me as you have!” “But if I’ve only met you once at a masked ball........” “Can’t you be brought to realise that every time you mistake me for that woman of the masked ball you turn the dagger in the wound?” she demanded. “But if you won’t invite me to call upon you, how and when am I to see you again?” “I haven’t an idea,” she answered, cheerfully. “I must go now. Good bye.” She rose. “One moment,” he interposed. “Before you go will you allow me to look at the palm of your left hand?” “What for?” “I can tell fortunes. I’m extremely good at it,” he boasted. “I’ll tell you yours.” “Oh, very well,” she assented, sitting down again: and guilelessly she pulled off her glove. He took her hand, a beautifully slender, nervous hand, warm and soft, with rosy, tapering fingers. “Oho! you are an old maid after all,” he cried. “There’s no wedding ring.” “You villain!” she gasped, snatching the hand away.