sight—­before she opened her lips—­before she ever turned her eyes on me.  She would have to wear some sort of sailor costume, a blue woollen shirt open at the throat. . . .  Dominic’s hooded cloak would envelop her amply, and her face under the black hood would have a luminous quality, adolescent charm, and an enigmatic expression.  The confined space of the little vessel’s quarterdeck would lend itself to her cross-legged attitudes, and the blue sea would balance gently her characteristic immobility that seemed to hide thoughts as old and profound as itself.  As restless, too—­perhaps.

But the picture I had in my eye, coloured and simple like an illustration to a nursery-book tale of two venturesome children’s escapade, was what fascinated me most.  Indeed I felt that we two were like children under the gaze of a man of the world—­who lived by his sword.  And I said recklessly: 

“Yes, you ought to come along with us for a trip.  You would see a lot of things for yourself.”

Mr. Blunt’s expression had grown even more indulgent if that were possible.  Yet there was something ineradicably ambiguous about that man.  I did not like the indefinable tone in which he observed: 

“You are perfectly reckless in what you say, Dona Rita.  It has become a habit with you of late.”

“While with you reserve is a second nature, Don Juan.”

This was uttered with the gentlest, almost tender, irony.  Mr. Blunt waited a while before he said: 

“Certainly. . . .  Would you have liked me to be otherwise?”

She extended her hand to him on a sudden impulse.

“Forgive me!  I may have been unjust, and you may only have been loyal.  The falseness is not in us.  The fault is in life itself, I suppose.  I have been always frank with you.”

“And I obedient,” he said, bowing low over her hand.  He turned away, paused to look at me for some time and finally gave me the correct sort of nod.  But he said nothing and went out, or rather lounged out with his worldly manner of perfect ease under all conceivable circumstances.  With her head lowered Dona Rita watched him till he actually shut the door behind him.  I was facing her and only heard the door close.

“Don’t stare at me,” were the first words she said.

It was difficult to obey that request.  I didn’t know exactly where to look, while I sat facing her.  So I got up, vaguely full of goodwill, prepared even to move off as far as the window, when she commanded: 

“Don’t turn your back on me.”

I chose to understand it symbolically.

“You know very well I could never do that.  I couldn’t.  Not even if I wanted to.”  And I added:  “It’s too late now.”

“Well, then, sit down.  Sit down on this couch.”