In the same unnatural voice, as though he put constraint upon himself for the performance of a disagreeable duty, he begged her to be seated, and Veranilda, not without betraying a slight trouble of surprise, took the chair to which he pointed. But he himself did not sit down. In the middle of the room stood a great bronze candelabrum, many-branched for the suspension of lamps, at its base three figures, Pluto, Neptune, and Proserpine. It was the only work of any value which the villa now contained, and Marcian associated it with the memories of his earliest years. As a little child he had often gazed at those three faces, awed by their noble gravity, and, with a child's diffidence, he had never ventured to ask what beings these were. He fixed his eyes upon them now, to avoid looking at Veranilda. She, timidly glancing at him, said in her soft, low voice, with the simplest sincerity: 'I have not yet found words in which to thank you, lord Marcian.' 'My thanks are due to you, dear lady, for gracing this poor house with your presence.' His tone was more suavely courteous. For an instant he looked at her, and his lips set themselves in something meant for a smile. 'This is the end of our journey?' she asked. 'For some days--if the place does not displease you.' 'How could I be ill at ease in the house of Basil's friend, and with the promise that Basil will soon come?' Marcian stared at the face of Proserpine, who seemed to regard him with solemn thoughtfulness. 'Had you any forewarning of your release from the monastery?' he asked of a sudden. 'None. None whatever.' 'You thought you would remain there for long to come?' 'I had not dared to think of that.' Marcian took a few paces, glanced at the sweet face, the beautiful head with its long golden hair, and came back to his place by the candelabrum, on which he rested a trembling hand. 'Had they spoken of making you a nun?' A look of dread came upon her countenance, and she whispered, 'Once or twice.' 'You would never have consented?' 'Only if I had known that release was hopeless, or that Basil--' Her voice failed. 'That Basil--?' echoed Marcian's lips, in an undertone. 'That he was dead.' 'You never feared that he might have forgotten you?' Again his accents were so hard that Veranilda gazed at him in troubled wonder. 'You never feared that?' he added, with fugitive eyes. 'Had I dreamt of it,' she replied, 'I think I should not live.' Then in a voice of anxious humility, 'Could Basil forget me?' 'Indeed, I should not think it easy,' murmured the other, his eyes cast down. 'And what,' he continued abruptly, 'was said to you when you left the convent? In what words did they take leave of you?' 'With none at all. I was bidden prepare for a journey, and soon after they led me to the gates. I knew nothing, nor did the woman with me.' 'Was the lady Aurelia in the same convent?' Marcian next inquired.