He wandered with Roma that evening in the dewy, moonlit garden, and neither remembered to wonder what it was that made the quiet hour so sweet. To neither did the sudden intimacy which had grown up between them seem strange. Rather it appeared as if they had known one another all their lives. ‘Or in another life before this one, Roma,’ said Phil, as they stood looking at the stars together. He had accidentally called her ‘Roma’ before now, and neither had observed what seemed so natural. ‘Surely this life is not the first. Do you not often feel that long, long ago you have lived out a previous existence—somewhere?’ ‘I suppose everyone has some such feeling from time to time,’ answered Roma dreamily. ‘Only we cannot be sure of it.’ ‘Why do we want to be sure? Why should we not be content to dream and to wonder? Certainty does not bring satisfaction—rather the reverse. Life is eternal, is it not—without beginning and without end? We must have lived before this. When we did so, I am sure that you and I were very near together. Does it not seem so to you, Roma?’ She smiled a little. ‘Perhaps it does.’ ‘You feel it too; then there is no room for doubt. One life has been spent side by side—shall this one be so spent, too?’ The last words were little more than a whisper. He was not sure that she had heard, for her head was turned slightly aside. ‘Have you no answer?’ he asked, taking her hand, and forcing her to look at him. ‘An answer?’ ‘Yes, Roma. You admit that we are not strangers really. Love knows no dates—time has no power over it. Days are as years, and years as days. We have known each other for years. You have said it yourself.’ ‘Not quite,’ she answered gently. ‘We were talking then of dreams and sweet fancies. Life, Signor, is not made up of these.’ ‘Signor!’ he repeated reproachfully. ‘How can you be so cold? Call me Filippo.’ ‘Filippo!’ she repeated wonderingly. ‘I mean Marco,’ he answered, with a confusion which was not noticed in the darkness. ‘I was thinking of my friend whom I saw this afternoon. Will you not call me Marco sometimes?’ ‘I—I do not know,’ faltered Roma. ‘I think—I think we ought not to stay here.’ ‘Why not? Is it unpleasant to you to be with me?’ ‘It is not that,’ said Roma softly. ‘Then we will stay,’ answered Philip, taking her hand and placing it upon his arm. ‘Come, let us go together to the park—Ladywell park—and look at the moonlight through the great trees. Your father is tired to-night, and will be best alone. Come, you shall tell me how you like Ladywell, and if——’ He pulled up there, but Roma answered softly: ‘Ladywell is lovely—the loveliest place in the world, I think.’ He smiled, and said half to himself: ‘You would be happy, then, to call it home?’ Roma took her hand away, and said in a pained voice: ‘Do not talk so, Signor.’ He understood, he thought, what she would imply, and smiled to himself, well pleased.