“It will be your turn to pay us a visit in England,” she said, rising; and she turned and looked at him with a smile which was very sweet and friendly, though so calm. “Then I will show you my country as you have shown me yours,” she added. How kind she was! almost affectionate, confiding; looking at him as if he had been an old friend--she who had known him a few weeks only. But, alas! the moon in the sky was not more serene than Diana. She went forward to the singers, adding in the same breath, “Is it over so soon? You have given us a very pleasant half-hour” (was it by their singing?). “Won’t you take something, and begin again?” “Tea is the worst thing for the voice,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “though I am dying for a cup of tea. No more to-night, dear Miss Trelawny. I am sure we have bored you quite enough: though it is amusing to those who sing, I am always sorry for the audience. We must not try you any more.” “I have liked it,” said Diana; and he thought she gave a humorous half-glance towards himself, as if to indicate how it was that she had liked it. As for Pandolfini, he could not bear the contact of the gay little crowd. He went into one of the deep windows, and after a moment stole out into the balcony outside. He was not calm. If Diana had liked this brief retirement from her little world and its busy affairs only to plunge into them again--to pour out tea for Mrs. Winthrop, and condole with the tenor on the cold which affected his voice--the Italian was not so philosophical. His frame quivered with all that he had said and all that he had not said. Had he betrayed himself? In every other kind of sentiment two people are on easier ground; but in love, except when they understand each other completely, how are they ever to understand each other? A woman cannot be kind without being more than kind, or a man make himself intelligible without those last explanations which one way or another are final--knitting the two together, or cutting them adrift for ever. Alas! there seemed no likelihood with that calm Diana of any knitting together: and he would not be cut adrift. No: he would take her at her word. He would be patient--nay, passive, tenacious--as the English like a man to be. He would be silent, resisting all temptation to speak even as he had spoken to-night. He would give up the ways of his own race and take to hers, concealing every sentiment; he would be reticent, self-controlled, everything that an Italian is not by nature. He would take the benefit of every moment here, and enjoy her society as if he did not love her. Yes; that is what he would do--take the good of her, as if she were nothing to him but an acquaintance, and never risk that subdued happiness by any revelation of deeper feeling. And then when all was had that could be had here, he would do as she had said--he would go to England, and there be happy, or at least a little happy, again. And who could tell? If he could manage to be so wise as this, so