’Was it something said,
       Something done,
     Was it touch of hand,
       Turn of head?’

I was also thinking about you.  I was wondering whether it would be my cruel destiny not to see you this evening, and thinking of the first time I ever saw you.”

“Oh,” said she, lightly, “that morning among the olives,—­when you gathered the windflowers for me?”

“No,” said he.  “That was the second time.”

“Indeed?” said she, surprised.  She sat down on the marble bench.  John stood before her.

“Yes,” said he.  “The first time was the day before.  You were crossing the garden—­you were bending over the sun-dial—­and I spied upon you from a window of the piano nobile.  Lady Blanchemain was there with me, and she made a prediction.”

“What did she predict?” asked Maria Dolores, unsuspicious.

“She predicted that I would fall—­” But he dropped his sentence in the middle.  “She predicted what has happened.”

“Oh,” murmured Maria Dolores, and looked at the horizon.  By-and-by, “That morning among the olives was the first time that I saw you—­when you dashed like a paladin to my assistance.  I feel that I have never sufficiently thanked you.”

“A paladin oddly panoplied,” said John.  “Tell me honestly, weren’t you in two minds whether or not to reward me with largesse?  You had silver in your hand.”

Maria Dolores laughed.  I think she coloured a little.

“Perhaps I was, for half a second,” she confessed.  “But your grand manner soon put me in one mind.”

John also laughed.  He took a turn backwards and forwards.  “I have waked in the dead of night, and grown hot and cold to remember the figure of fun I was.”

“No,” said Maria Dolores, to console him.  “You weren’t a figure of fun.  Your costume had the air of being an impromptu, but,” she laughed, “your native dignity shone through.”

“Thank you,” said John, bowing.  “The next time I saw you was that same afternoon.  You were with Annunziata in the avenue.  I carried my vision of you, like a melody, all the way to Roccadoro-and all the way home again.”

“I had just made Annunziata’s acquaintance,” said Maria Dolores.

“You had a white sunshade and a lilac frock,” said John.  “The next time was that night in the moonlight.  You were all in white, with a scarf of white lace over your hair.  You threw me a white rose from your balcony—­and I have carried that rose with me ever since.”

“I threw you a white rose?” doubted Maria Dolores, looking up, at fault.

“Yes,” said John.  “Have you forgotten it?”

“I certainly have,” said she, with emphasis.

“You threw me a smile that was like a white rose,” said he.

She laughed.

“I think I just distantly acknowledged your bow,” she said.

“Well, some people’s distant acknowledgments are like white roses,” said he.  “I hope, at least, you remember what a glorious night it was, and how the nightingales were singing?”