There seemed to me to be an element of romance in the story that Mervin told me about Miss O'Flaherty which, if it were possible, increased my affection for her. My compassion was excited by the tale, and compassion has been well defined to be momentary love. As I walked along the promenade, by the shore of the Mediterranean, about an hour after breakfast, I debated with myself, in a perfect agony, the question whether I ought to call upon her. I knew that as a man of sense and honor it was my duty to her, and to myself, to leave Nice at once, for I felt certain that if I came under the influence of her presence again my passion would overcome me and I should tell her of my love. On the other hand, I felt drawn toward her by an irresistible spell. How the matter would have ended if I had not run across Mrs. O'Flaherty, I do not know; but my accidentally meeting her left me no escape, and in a few minutes I found myself in a handsomely furnished parlor talking to Miss O'Flaherty, who looked more bewitching than ever in a light-blue morning costume. When the _dejeuner_ was over, Mrs. O'Flaherty retired to have a snooze, as she called it, and presently Miss O'Flaherty sat down to the piano. Of her performance, I can only say that she seemed to me to play as Beethoven or Mendelssohn themselves have played. The instrument seemed a living thing in her hands. It spoke out of love and hope and joy, of sorrow and affliction. It seemed like a spirit to intercede between us, and to tell me that in spite of all human laws and ceremonies she, and she alone was my wife. I must have been mad when I told her of my love--told her my whole story, told her in words I could never recall--fierce, frantic words I am afraid they were--that without her life was worthless to me--begged her to fly with me to some far-off country where we could live for each other unknown, and where our union would be sanctified by our love, and then sank into a chair horrified at what I had done. She had risen from the piano while I was speaking, and was standing by the mantel-piece. Her countenance was as pale as death; it was as white and, save for a strange light that shone from her eyes, as expressionless as the face of a corpse. She did not interrupt me by a word or a sign, only stood and looked me straight in the face while I spoke. I had been sitting for nearly a minute with my face in my hands, stupefied with shame and terror, when these words rang in my astonished ears: "You have asked me to be your mistress; what guaranty have I that you would have asked me to be your wife if you were free?"