What or who she was he did not care, nor how she came to be in this poor inn dressed in this festal fashion. He was pleased to see again one of the pretty creatures who had always been to him the most entrancing and beautiful objects in an entrancing and beautiful world. He watched the gentle vision with interest and tenderness, making no movement or sound. Suddenly she turned full on him her dark face that, although it was too broad for perfect beauty, was piquant and glowing with fine colour. The Duke rose and bowed. “I am Philip Wharton, Señora,” he said in Spanish. She advanced towards him. “I thought you were upstairs,” she said gravely. Her voice was delicate, but her speech had the peasant accent of Andalusia. “Were you watching for me?” he asked curiously. “Yes,” she said. “For who else? Why should I come back after this long time save to see you? Yesterday I was here,” she added, “but you would not see me.” “Pardon me, I was ill yesterday and did not come downstairs.” She gazed at him with soft, luminous and unfathomable eyes. “Have I seen you before?” asked the Duke, endeavouring to place her among the many women who had flitted across his life. “I used to dance,” she answered, “at the opera in Venice.” He did not remember her. How could he recall one face from out the whirl of joy and gaiety he had known in Venice? “You are Spanish?” he asked. “From Andalusia. And you are English?” “Yes.” “And dying?” “Ah, you know as much as that, do you?” he smiled. “I know many things now.” “Ah, wisdom!” he mocked. “I could wager your knowledge begins and ends with the list of your victims and triumphs. How did you come here?” he asked abruptly. “I ran away.” “To this place?” “It was but a stage on the road.” “You know me?” he asked. “Yes; I have met you at Paris, at Vienna, at Rome and Naples.” “By gad,” he said, “you flatter me by your memory.” He began to notice that she never smiled, and it displeased him; he disliked a grave woman. “What is your name?” he asked in the tone of a master, and sank back into the chair, for indeed he felt very weak. She shook her head. “I have so many.” “Give me one.” She bent her eyes on him earnestly. “What was the name of your first love?” she asked. He started. “I have forgotten.” “What was the name of the woman you loved the most?” Fair faces rose before him, tearful faces, pleading faces, angry faces–he could not choose between them. “I do not know,” he said faintly. She glanced round the room as if she, too, saw the faces that had risen so clearly before his mental eyes. “You were not kind or loyal to one of them,” she said. Philip Wharton laughed. “Tell me your name,” he insisted. “You have forgotten it, and you do not know it,” she returned quickly. “Once I was called Helen, but that was a long time ago.” He looked at her curiously. “Tell me about yourself,” he said, “and how you come to be here alone.”