Noiselessly I entered. The room was dazzling in its magnificence, notwithstanding that the lamps were shaded by soft lace and tinted silk. The gilt furniture, the great mirrors, the statuary--genuine works by Leopardi and Sansovino--the Persian rugs and rich silken hangings, all betokened wealth, taste, and refinement. Reclining on a couch with languid grace, clad in a loose wrapper of dove-grey silk, with her hair _en deshabille_, was the woman I loved. "Santina!" I whispered, bending over her, uttering a pet name I had bestowed upon her. She started, and jumped up quickly, half-frightened, exclaiming-- "_Cielo_! You, Gasparo--you _here_?" "Yes," I replied, catching her white bejewelled hand and kissing it. "Yes. Why not?" She snatched away her hand quickly, and passed it wearily across her brow. Her beauty shone with marvellous radiance, for she was only twenty-four--fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slim, graceful figure that gave her an almost girlish appearance. I own myself entranced by her loveliness. "I thought," she said, after a moment's hesitation--"I thought my note explained everything. The statue is practically finished, and--" "No--no!" I cried. "It is still incomplete. You cannot--you shall not leave me, Santina!" "Pray, why?" she asked indignantly, raising her eyebrows. "Because--because I love you," I stammered. "Love!" she exclaimed, with a light laugh. "Bah! How foolish! Love! It is only plebeians and fools who love. There is no such word in our vocabulary." "Yes, yes," I said quickly. "I know the insurmountable barrier that lies between us, Santina. But do you intend to leave Italy--to leave me alone--now?" "Of course. It is not my intention to return for several years; perhaps never. We have spent many pleasant hours together; but you have become infatuated, therefore we must part." "No!" I cried; "I cannot--I will not let you go! Only a week ago you confessed that you loved me. What have I done that you should treat me so?" She made no immediate answer; and as she stood with bowed head and somewhat pale, thoughtful face, I wondered what mystery veiled and troubled her clear, resolute nature. Placing my arm around her waist, I bent and kissed her lips; but she struggled to free herself. "_Dio_!" she cried hoarsely. "Why have you come here, Gasparo? Think of my reputation--my honour! If any one found you here alone with me, and I in _deshabille_." "Tell me, Santina, do you still love me?" I asked earnestly, looking into her eyes. "I--I hardly know," she replied, with a strange, preoccupied air. "Why are you leaving so suddenly?" "Because it is imperative," she replied. "But hush! listen! a voice! _Dio! it is my husband_!" "Your husband!" I gasped. "What do you mean? I thought the Count died in Buenos Ayres two years ago, and that you were free?" "So did I. But that was his voice. _Cielo_! I know it, alas! too well," she said, turning deathly pale.