“I want to write some romances about the princely houses of India—of that period which immediately antedates the invasion of the East India Company. I spent a year in northern and western India, and collected a quantity of material. We know little of the picturesque side of India outside of Macaulay, Crawford, and Edwin Arnold, and it is immensely fertile in romance and anecdote. There never were such love-affairs, such daring intrigues, such tragedies! And the setting! It would take twenty vocabularies to do it justice; but it is gratifying to find a setting upon which one vocabulary has not been twenty times exhausted. And then I have half promised Mrs. Trennor-Secor to dramatize Rossetti’s ‘Rose Mary’ for her. She wants to use it at Newport this summer, or rather, she wanted something, and I suggested that. I have always intended to do it. But I feel little in the humor for writing at present, to tell you the truth.” He stopped abruptly, and Hermia clasped her hands more tightly about her knee. “What are your plans for ‘Rose Mary’?” she asked. “I hope you will have five or six voices sing the Beryl songs behind the altar. The effect would be weird and most impressive.” “That is a good idea,” said Quintard. “How many ideas you have given me!” “Tell me your general plan,” she said quickly. He sketched it to her, and she questioned him at length, nervously keeping him on the subject as long as she could. The atmosphere seemed charged; they would never get through this evening in safety! If he retained his self-control, she felt that she should lose hers. She pressed her face down against her knee, and his words began to reach her consciousness with the indistinctness of words that come through ears that are the outposts of a dreaming brain. When he finished he sat suddenly upright, and for a few moments uttered no word. He sat close beside her, almost touching her, and Hermia felt as if her veins’ rivers had emptied their cataracts into her ears. Her nerves were humming in a vast choir. She made a rigid attempt at self-control, and the effort made her tremble. Quintard threw himself forward, and putting his hand to her throat forced back her head. Her face was white, but her lips were burning. Quintard pressed his mouth to hers—and Hermia took her ideals to her heart once more. Time passed and the present returned to them. He spoke his first word. “We will be married before the week is out. Promise.” He left her suddenly, and Hermia sank back and down amidst the cushions. Once or twice she moved impatiently. Why was he not with her? The languor in her veins grew heavier and wrapped her about as in a covering. She slept. * * * * * CHAPTER XXXVI. AN AWAKENING.