On one side of the road was a cottage, standing by itself, and partly screened by the shrubs which grew in the small garden in front of it. Here the man stopped short, for the lower windows of the cottage were open, and from within he could hear some one singing the very song which he had just been humming. Some one? Why, it could be no other than Viola herself who was singing it like that! He had always been interested in Viola, although he had seen her only on the stage. It was her reputation that she loved splendour and luxury. What could she be doing in this quiet, out-of-the-way village? He leaned over the low garden gate, resting his elbows on the top of it, and listened until the song’s conclusion. The room in the cottage was brightly lighted, and the curtains were not drawn over the window; he had heard rightly; it _was_ Viola. He could see her distinctly. She was standing with her face towards the garden; and the man watched her attentively. The mystery increased. Her dress was brilliant, not the dress that a woman would put on in solitude and in a country village. She was wearing her diamonds too--those diamonds about which every story had been told except the true one. What was the reason for it all? Was this simply her passion for splendour, existing even when the splendour was to have no witnesses. The little, shabby, taciturn old woman who acted as her companion in London was seated at the piano, and had been playing the music for her song. But surely Viola would not have made herself so magnificent simply on her account. It suddenly dawned on him that he was doing rather a mean thing by watching Viola in this way. He would not look any more, but he would wait, in case she should be going to sing again. That was love of music--not curiosity. But even as he was making this decision the door of the cottage opened, and Viola came out. She walked straight up the pathway towards the gate on which the man was leaning; there was not the least hesitation about her. “I wonder how on earth she managed to see me in this darkness?” he thought. “Well, I’m not going to run away. I will wait, and make my apologies to her. I expect she will be angry with me. Well, she should not leave the windows open when she sings, if she does not want people to stop and listen.” As she drew near to him she murmured a few words in Italian, as if she were pleased about something; he conjectured that much, for he could not understand Italian. Then she astonished him by placing her hands on his shoulders, and kissing him, once, passionately. It flashed across him for an instant that she had been expecting some one else, and had made a mistake. Now he understood the dress, the diamonds--everything. “Excuse me, my dear lady,” he said, “but you are kissing the wrong face--are you not?” He afterwards thought that he might have expressed himself better, but he was agitated.