"No, no, piccina," he cried, placing his arm tenderly around her waist, beneath the warm cape she wore. "It is foolish--very foolish to speak like that. You surely have no reason to doubt me?" "I do not doubt your love, Nino. I doubt, however, whether you have sufficient confidence in me to await the elucidation of the strange mystery which envelops me--a mystery which even I myself cannot penetrate." "Have I not already shown myself patient?" he asked with a reproachful look. "Yes, yes, mio adorato," she hastened to reassure him. "You are good and kind and generous, and I love you. Only--only I fear the future. I fear you--I fear myself." "Why do you fear me, little one?" he asked. "Surely I'm not so monstrous--eh?" The hand he held trembled. "I distrust the future--because I know the fate cruel and terrible-- which, sooner or later, must befall me," she exclaimed, with heart-sinking. "You steadily decline to tell me anything," he said. "If you would only confide in me, we might together find some means to combat this mysterious catastrophe." "I cannot! I dare not!" "But you must!" he cried. "You shall!" "I refuse?" she answered fiercely. "You shall not suffer this constant terror merely because of a foolish determination to preserve your secret. After all, I suppose it is only some curious and unfounded dread which holds you awe-stricken, when you could afford to laugh it all to scorn." "You will never wring confession from me, Nino--never!" Her eyes met his fixedly, determinedly. On her countenance was an expression as if she were haunted by a shadow of evil, as if even then she saw before her the dire disaster which she had declared must ere long wreck her life, and extinguish all hope of happiness. No further word passed her lips, and a silence fell between them until the cab drew up at the hotel. The afternoon being bright and sunny, they went down to the Crystal Palace. To Gemma, all was fresh and full of interest; she even found in the plaster imitations of well-known statues something to criticise and admire, although she admitted that, living within a stone's throw of the world-famed Uffizi Gallery, she had never entered the Tribuna there, nor seen the Satyr, the Wrestlers, or the Medici Venus. After spending an hour in the Palace, they emerged into the grounds, and, descending the many flights of steps, passed the great fountains, and strolled down the long, broad walk towards Penge, it being their intention to return to town from that station. The sun was going down, a grey mist was rising, and the chill wind of evening whisked the dead leaves in their path. The spacious grounds were silent, deserted, cheerless.