“I am thinking of other things, my Bicina,” said Langhetti, who had never given up his old, fond, fraternal manner toward her. “It has no connection with art. I do not consider the mere effect of the name for one moment.” “What is it, then, that you do consider?” “Other things.” “What other things?” “Not connected with Art,” continued Langhetti, evasively. “I will tell you some day when the time comes.” “Now you are exciting my curiosity,” said Beatrice, in a low and earnest tone. “You do not know what thoughts you excite within me. Either you ought not to excite such ideas, or if you do, it is your duty to satisfy them.” “It is not time yet.” “What do you mean by that?” “That is a secret.” “Of course; you make it one; but if it is one connected with me, then surely I ought to know.” “It is not time yet for you to know.” “When will it be time?” “I can not tell.” “And you will therefore keep it a secret forever?” “I hope, my Bicina, that the time will come before long.” “Yet why do you wait, if you know or even suspect any thing in which I am concerned?” “I wish to spare you.” “That is not necessary. Am I so weak that I can not bear to hear any thing which you may have to tell? You forget what a life I have had for two years. Such a life might well prepare me for any thing.” “If it were merely something which might create sorrow I would tell it. I believe that you have a self-reliant nature, which has grown stronger through affliction. But that which I have to tell is different. It is of such a character that it would of necessity destroy any peace of mind which you have, and fill you with hopes and feelings that could never be satisfied.” “Yet even that I could bear. Do you not see that by your very vagueness you are exciting my thoughts and hopes? You do not know what I know.” “What do you know?” asked Langhetti, eagerly. Beatrice hesitated. No; she could not tell. That would be to tell all the holiest secrets of her heart. For she must then tell about Brandon, and the African island, and the manuscript which he carried and which had been taken from his bosom. Of this she dared not speak. She was silent. “You can not _know_ any thing,” said Langhetti. “You may suspect much. I only have suspicions. Yet it would not be wise to communicate these to you, since they would prove idle and without result.” So the conversation ended, and Langhetti still maintained his secret, though Beatrice hoped to find it out. At length she was sufficiently recovered to be able to begin the work to which Langhetti wished to lead her. It was August, and Langhetti was impatient to be gone. So when August began he made preparations to depart, and in a few days they were in London. Edith was left with Mrs. Thornton. Beatrice had an attendant who went with her, half chaperon half lady’s maid. CHAPTER XXXVI THE AFFAIRS OF SMITHERS & CO.