The bees went on humming in the rosemary, droning all sorts of suggestions into her ear. Now it was the hum of a schoolroom about a little curly-headed boy, with his fingers in his ears, his elbows on a desk, and his brows knitted over a dog's-eared book not unstained by tears. "_Musa_--a song, _Musæ_--of a song," he was drearily droning over and over again. Then it was an interminable clergyman in a lofty pulpit upon the crags, discoursing wearily of the sins of the woman of mystery and the follies of Ermengarde, for which there seemed to be no remedy. The clergyman was curiously like the thin man, and was beginning to be very wearisome on the indiscretions of the young Isidore, when he suddenly changed to Arthur, standing on the drawing-room hearthrug at home, and holding forth on the same topics with the name and identity of Ivor Paul confused with those of M. Isidore. Arthur's voice was unmistakable; it was rather deep, and liable to become monotonous, especially when he discoursed upon excesses in hats and gowns, of the desirability of keeping accurate accounts, of never exceeding one's allowance or letting bills run on, of the excellent household management of his mother, and inferior capabilities of ladies of the present generation. The voice became clearer and more resonant, the dreamer grew conscious of rosemary-scent and sunshine, the grey columns of the olive-grove swam out of a haze of sunshot foliage, and became distinct above patches of golden light on flowery grass. Arthur's voice rumbled away in confused murmurs; there was a faint sound of skirts brushing herbage and a woman's lighter voice; finally, the well-known figures of the woman of mystery and the Anarchist were seen upon the path under the olives, leading away from the rosemary bank, and Ermengarde knew that she had been dozing, and was now wide awake again. Her heart was beating hard; the dream of Arthur had been so vivid. She could not realize that it had only been a dream; it was as if he had actually been standing here on the thin grass under the pendent olive-branches in the tender shadowy light. The familiar voice was still in her ears, stirring all sorts of buried memories and slumbering feelings. Oh, why was he not with her? How was it that, with all the leisure and independence this great success must mean, he could not leave that miserable, so-called business of his, and come and take care of her, and rescue her from the insults of hotel-keepers and the persecutions of Anarchists? It was not as if he were obliged to stay in London. She was so lonely, so unfriended, so desperately home-sick. Yes, home-sick; that was the name of this lonely, gnawing heart-pang that grew worse from day to day.