There was a pause.  Taking out my knife, I ripped open a seam in the curtain hanging before me, and looked through.  He was eyeing her intently, a firm look upon his face that made its reserve more marked than common.  I saw him gaze at her handsome head piled with its midnight tresses amid which the jewels, doubtless of her dead lord, burned with a fierce and ominous glare, at her smooth olive brow, her partly veiled eyes where the fire passionately blazed, at her scarlet lips trembling with an emotion her rapidly flushing cheeks would not allow her to conceal.  I saw his glances fall and embrace her whole elegant form with its casing of ruby velvet and ornamentation of lace and diamonds, and an expectant thrill passed through me almost as if I already beheld the mask of his reserve falling, and the true man flash out in response to the wooing beauty of this full-blown rose, evidently in waiting for him.  But it died away and a deeper feeling seized me as I saw his glances return unkindled to her countenance, and heard him say in still more measured accents than before: 

“Is it possible then that the Countess De Mirac can desire the adulation of us poor American plebeians?  I had not thought it, madame.”

Slowly her dark eyes turned towards him; she stood a statue.

“But I forget,” he went on, a tinge of bitterness for a moment showing itself in his smile:  “perhaps in returning to her own country, Evelyn Blake has so far forgotten the last two years as to find pleasure again in the toys and foibles of her youth.  Such things have been, I hear.”  And he bowed almost to the ground in his half sarcastic homage.

“Evelyn Blake!  It is long since I have heard that name,” she murmured.

He could not restrain the quick flush from mounting to his brow.  “Pardon me,” said he, “if it brings you sadness or unwelcome memories.  I promise you I will not so transgress again.”

A wan smile crossed her lips grown suddenly pallid.

“You mistake,” said she; “if my name brings up a past laden with bitter memories and shadowed by regret, it also recalls much that is pleasant and never to be forgotten.  I do not object to hearing my girlhood’s name uttered—­by my nearest relative.”

The answer was dignity itself.  “Your name is Countess De Mirac, your relatives must be proud to utter it.”

A gleam not unlike the lightning’s quick flash shot from the eyes she drooped before him.

“Is it Holman Blake I am listening to,” said she; “I do not recognize my old friend in the cool and sarcastic man of the world now before me.”

“We often fail to recognize the work of our hands, madame, after it has fallen from our grasp.”

“What,” she cried, “do you mean—­would you say that—­”

“I would say nothing,” interrupted he calmly, stooping for the fan she had dropped.  “At an interview which is at once a meeting and a parting, I would give utterance to nothing which would seem like recrimination.  I—­”