This morning, in the sitting-room of their suite at the hotel, the young man was occupied with the translating of a little Italian book, _Vita dei SS_. _Jiulio e Giuliano_, a history of those two apostles who came from the Ægean Sea in the fourth century to preach the gospel in Orta. A passage taken from Lamartine, and left there in the original text, held him longer than the obscurest phrase. In a reverie he lifted his head from the prospect near the window. His eyes disdained the bouquet of trees which finished off the peninsula below him, the calm and transparent lake, the little island, a place where enchantments were performed in ancient days, which the poetic author of the biography compared to a camellia on a silver plate. Spontaneously they sought the ridge of the mountains which barred the horizon, as if he would pierce them and look beyond. While he was thus absorbed, a white form glided into the room and bent over his shoulder to glance at the open book. From among the foreign phrases the passage from Lamartine detached itself in italics: _The predestined fate of the child is the house in which it was born: his spirit is made up above all else of impressions there received. The look of our mother’s eyes is a part of our soul, entering through our oxen eyes into our inmost parts._ Mrs. Frasne quietly closed the book; and her lover, who had not heard her come in, started at the movement. Between them passed a look full of those things which lovers hardly dare to speak or even think. “What day of the month is it?” she asked indifferently. Reassured, he replied: “The twenty-fifth of October.” Then all at once she made him anxious once more: “A year ago, do you remember, we met each other at the Calvary of Lemenc. It was there we made up our minds to flee together. Only a year, and already my love is no longer enough for you.” “Edith!” “No, it’s no longer enough for you.” And with a sad smile she added simply: “See, how you work.” “Edith, must we not think of the future?” “No, not yet. What do we need?” He took umbrage at her question: “My resources are used up. The money we’re spending now is yours. I can’t forget that.” “But all is the same between us. Am I not your wife?” He wrinkled his eyebrows with a purposed look. “I want your dot to remain intact. I’ve asked one of my friends, who is a political writer in Paris, to find me a place with the newspapers. Can’t I send them some review from the foreign journals? I learned English at college, and later German for my doctor’s thesis. And I speak Italian already. This side work and a place in a lawyer’s office will give us enough to live on.” She listened to him with an enigmatic smile, while she stroked his face with that gesture of adoration so familiar to him. “To-morrow we’ll talk about the future. To-morrow, not to-day,” she said. “Why should we wait a day? On the contrary, we ought to decide at once on the date of our departure.” “Our departure?”