He came. During the evening he asked Miss Stowe to sing. "I have lost my voice," she answered. "Yes," said Miss Harrison, "it is really remarkable; Margaret, although she seems so well, has not been able to sing for months--indeed, for a full year. It is quite sad." "I am not sad about it, Aunt Ruth; I am relieved. I never sang well--I had not voice enough. There was really nothing in it but expression; and that was all pretence." "You are trying to make us think you very artificial," said Morgan. "I can make you think what I please, probably. I can follow several lines of conduct, one after the other, and make you believe them all." She spoke lightly; her general tone was much lighter than formerly, as she herself had said. "Do you ever walk in the Boboli Garden now?" he asked, later. "Occasionally; but it is a dull place. And I do not walk as much as I did; I drive with my aunt." "Yes, Margaret has grown indolent," said Miss Harrison; "and it seems to agree with her. She has more color than formerly; she looks well." "Wonderfully," said Morgan. "But you are thinner than you were," he added, turning towards her. "And darker!" she answered, laughing. "Mr. Morgan does not admire arrangements in black and white, Aunt Ruth; do not embarrass him." She wore that evening a white dress, unrelieved by any color. "I see you are bent upon being unkind," he said. It was supposed to be a society remark. "Not the least in the world," she answered, in the same tone. He met her several times in company, and had short conversations with her. Then, one afternoon, he came upon her unexpectedly in the Cascine; she was strolling down the broad path alone. "So you do walk sometimes, after all," he said. "Never. I am only strolling. I drove here with Aunt Ruth, but, as she came upon a party of American friends who are going to-morrow, I gave up my place, and they are driving around together for a while, and no doubt settling the entire affairs of Westchester County." "I am glad she met them; I am glad to find you alone. I have something I wish much to say to you." "Such a beginning always frightens me. Pray postpone it." "On the contrary, I shall hasten it. I must make the most of this rare opportunity. Do you remember when you did me the honor, Miss Stowe, to make me the subject of an experiment?" "You insist upon recalling that piece of folly?" she said, opening her parasol. Her tone was composed and indifferent. "I recall it because I wish to base something upon it. I wish to ask you--to allow yourself to be passively the subject of an experiment on _my_ part, an experiment of the same nature." She glanced at him; he half smiled. "Did you imagine, then, that mine was in earnest?" she said, with a fine, light scorn, light as air. "I never imagine anything. Imaginations are useless." "Not so useless as experiments. Let yours go, and tell me rather what you found to like in--Trieste." "I suppose you know that I went to England?"