Was it the champagne? the music? or the poetry?  Something of the two former, perhaps:  but most the enchantress playing upon him.  How many instruments cannot clever women play upon at the same moment!  And this enchantress was not too clever, or he might have felt her touch.  She was no longer absolutely bent on winning him, or he might have seen a manoeuvre.  She liked him—­liked none better.  She wished him well.  Her pique was satisfied.  Still he was handsome, and he was going.  What she liked him for, she rather—­very slightly—­wished to do away with, or see if it could be done away with:  just as one wishes to catch a pretty butterfly, without hurting its patterned wings.  No harm intended to the innocent insect, only one wants to inspect it thoroughly, and enjoy the marvel of it, in one’s tender possession, and have the felicity of thinking one could crush it, if one would.

He knew her what she was, this lady.  In Seville, or in Venice, the spot was on her.  Sailing the pathways of the moon it was not celestial light that illumined her beauty.  Her sin was there:  but in dreaming to save, he was soft to her sin—­drowned it in deep mournfulness.

Silence, and the rustle of her dress, awoke him from his musing.  She swam wave-like to the sofa.  She was at his feet.

“I have been light and careless to-night, Richard.  Of course I meant it.  I must be happy with my best friend going to leave me.”

Those witch underlids were working brightly.

“You will not forget me? and I shall try...try...”

Her lips twitched.  She thought him such a very handsome fellow.

“If I change—­if I can change...  Oh! if you could know what a net I’m in, Richard!”

Now at those words, as he looked down on her haggard loveliness, not divine sorrow but a devouring jealousy sprang like fire in his breast, and set him rocking with horrid pain.  He bent closer to her pale beseeching face.  Her eyes still drew him down.

“Bella!  No! no! promise me! swear it!”

“Lost, Richard! lost for ever! give me up!”

He cried:  “I never will!” and strained her in his arms, and kissed her passionately on the lips.

She was not acting now as she sidled and slunk her half-averted head with a kind of maiden shame under his arm, sighing heavily, weeping, clinging to him.  It was wicked truth.

Not a word of love between them!

Was ever hero in this fashion won?

CHAPTER XXXIX

At a season when the pleasant South-western Island has few attractions to other than invalids and hermits enamoured of wind and rain, the potent nobleman, Lord Mountfalcon, still lingered there to the disgust of his friends and special parasite.  “Mount’s in for it again,” they said among themselves.  “Hang the women!” was a natural sequence.  For, don’t you see, what a shame it was of the women to be always kindling such a very inflammable