edging.

"You must not talk so--at least--here," she said, with her glance in
contradiction to her words. "I am happy, or contented, strictly
speaking, in my home, and as soon as my husband realizes one or two of
the ideas over which he is musing, happiness must be mine. A success in
art will drag him forth; he must go to Paris to be feasted in the salons
and lionized in the conversaziones."

And her eyes blazed as she figured herself presiding at an assemblage of
artists and patrons.

"Pardon me," said the viscount-baron. "I am afraid I add to your worry.
I see that you are pining for the sphere to which your grace and charms
entice you. I will do anything you order; but yet, since I, too, am an
exile, and for your sake, pray do not ask me not to see you and speak of
love."

"It must be thus," she replied, with half-closed eyes, turning away
abruptly, as if she feared her virtuous resolution were failing. "Let
our parting be forever!"

"Forever!" he repeated, following her into the window alcove, although
thirty pairs of eyes regarded them. "You cannot mean that. At least, I
deserve--have earned--your friendship by what I have undergone for you.
Let me have a word of hope! Though divorce is not allowed in this
country, death befalls any man, for while your statisticians figure out
that the married live longest, they do not assert that they are
immortal. Clemenceau dead, his widow may remarry. You say he is an
enthusiast--one of those college-growths which run to seed without any