of their disease.  Rita’s own spirit hovered over the troubled waters of Legitimity.  But as to the sound of the four magic letters of her name I was not very likely to hear it fall sweetly on my ear.  For instance, the distinguished personality in the world of finance with whom I had to confer several times, alluded to the irresistible seduction of the power which reigned over my heart and my mind; which had a mysterious and unforgettable face, the brilliance of sunshine together with the unfathomable splendour of the night as—­Madame de Lastaola.  That’s how that steel-grey man called the greatest mystery of the universe.  When uttering that assumed name he would make for himself a guardedly solemn and reserved face as though he were afraid lest I should presume to smile, lest he himself should venture to smile, and the sacred formality of our relations should be outraged beyond mending.

He would refer in a studiously grave tone to Madame de Lastaola’s wishes, plans, activities, instructions, movements; or picking up a letter from the usual litter of paper found on such men’s desks, glance at it to refresh his memory; and, while the very sight of the handwriting would make my lips go dry, would ask me in a bloodless voice whether perchance I had “a direct communication from—­er—­Paris lately.”  And there would be other maddening circumstances connected with those visits.  He would treat me as a serious person having a clear view of certain eventualities, while at the very moment my vision could see nothing but streaming across the wall at his back, abundant and misty, unearthly and adorable, a mass of tawny hair that seemed to have hot sparks tangled in it.  Another nuisance was the atmosphere of Royalism, of Legitimacy, that pervaded the room, thin as air, intangible, as though no Legitimist of flesh and blood had ever existed to the man’s mind except perhaps myself.  He, of course, was just simply a banker, a very distinguished, a very influential, and a very impeccable banker.  He persisted also in deferring to my judgment and sense with an over-emphasis called out by his perpetual surprise at my youth.  Though he had seen me many times (I even knew his wife) he could never get over my immature age.  He himself was born about fifty years old, all complete, with his iron-grey whiskers and his bilious eyes, which he had the habit of frequently closing during a conversation.  On one occasion he said to me.  “By the by, the Marquis of Villarel is here for a time.  He inquired after you the last time he called on me.  May I let him know that you are in town?”

I didn’t say anything to that.  The Marquis of Villarel was the Don Rafael of Rita’s own story.  What had I to do with Spanish grandees?  And for that matter what had she, the woman of all time, to do with all the villainous or splendid disguises human dust takes upon itself?  All this was in the past, and I was acutely aware that for me there was no present, no future, nothing but a hollow pain,