Now he was leaning a little forward, his elbow resting on his knee, his hand shading his face from the light of the fire. He was studying her face closely, and thought that he had never seen any woman quite so beautiful. "Laurence was a fool!" he was saying to himself as he took in every detail of the perfect face, the delicate contour of the cheeks, the pearly whiteness of the skin, the exquisite line of chin and throat, and above all those dark, glowing, unfathomable eyes which betrayed all the latent fire and passion which coldness of demeanour strove vainly to conceal. "Laurence was a fool! He would have fallen madly in love with this beautiful creature, and would have made her happy and contented with her lot, whilst the bonds of matrimony would have sat more lightly on him than on me." He sighed, feeling a little sorry for himself, but nevertheless he stretched out his hand and captured hers--an exquisitely fashioned little hand it was, delicate to the touch and pulsating with life, like a prisoned bird. Mark was a young man--and one who had already got out of life most of the joys which it holds, but just for a moment he felt a curious thrill of unaccustomed pleasure, in holding this perfect thing--donna Lenora’s hand. His own hands were strong, yet slender, finely shaped and warm to the touch, but it must be supposed that as he held hers, he must--quite unconsciously--have hurt her, for suddenly he saw that she turned even whiter than she had been before, her eyes closed and quite abruptly she withdrew her hand. "Do I anger you, Madonna?" he asked. "Nay, Messire," she replied coldly. "May I not then hold your hand--for a very little while in mine?" "If you wish." But she did not voluntarily put her hand out to him, and he made no second attempt to capture it. "We do not seem to be getting along very fast," he said quaintly. She smiled. "Seeing how we came to be together, Messire," she said, "we were not like to have much in common." "Yet, we shall have to pass our lives together, Madonna." "Alas!" she sighed. "I own that the prospect cannot be very alluring for you--it doth not seem to suggest an interminable vista of happiness...." "Oh!" she murmured as if involuntarily, "I was not thinking of happiness." "How strange," he retorted gently, "now, whenever I look at you, Madonna, I invariably think of happiness." "Happiness? With me?" "With you, sweetheart, if you will but allow me to work for that object. After all, my dear," he added with that whimsical smile of his, "we are both young, you and I; life lies all before us. I own that we have made a sorry beginning, that the first chapter of our book of life hath been ill-writ and by clumsy hands. But suppose we turn over a few pages, do you not think that we might happen on a more romantic passage?"