And there it began.  And swift and sudden it went on to the end.  She had come on board the yacht that first night to startle it with her beauty and her voice; last night, silent and stately, she had slipped through the evening like a dream; now she stood before him a dazzling creature of the morning:  yesterday she was Penseroso; to-day she was Allegro; what would she be to-morrow?  How sparkling, as one day followed another, her gayety was! and yet with no shallow sparkle:  there was always the shadow of still depths just beyond—­seasons of silence, moments of half sadness, times when he had to wonder whither her thoughts had led her.  She sang a little song of the muleteers on the mountains, that he admired; then she must teach it to him, she said; they sang the song together, their voices lingering on the same note, rising in the same breath, falling in the same cadence.  He had a sonorous tenor of his own:  more than once she caught herself pausing in her part to hear it.  How soft, and yet how strong, was the language of the song! he said; he must learn Spanish, she replied; and they hung together over the same book, and he repeated the phrase that fell from her lips—­an apt pupil, it may be, for more than once the phrase, as he uttered it, deepened the color on her cheek.  More than once she was conscious of gazing at him to find the charm that Lilian had found; more than once he caught her glance and held it there suspended; more than once you might have thought, by the quick, impatient manner in which she tore her eyes away, that she had found the charm herself.  Perhaps he made some ostentation of his attraction before the others; perhaps the simulation of warmth was close enough to melt a colder heart than hers; perhaps it was not wholly simulation.  It may be that her hand lay in his a moment longer than need was, her glance fell before his a moment sooner:  it may be that as she fled all her manner beckoned him to follow.  She was confiding to him her thoughts, her aspirations, her emotions, as if she wished that he, and he alone, should know them:  he was listening as though there were no other knowledge in the world.  If presently he thought of her as a creature of romance, if presently she felt the need of that keen interest, what wonder?  They were playing with fire, and those that play with fire must needs be burned.  And meantime, whether he looked at her languid in the burning noon, gay with the reviving freshness of the dusk, leaning over the bulwarks in the night and gazing up into the great spaces of the stars, he was always fascinated to look again.  There was the profile exquisite as sculpture, there was the color as velvet soft as rose-petals, there was the droop of the long silken lashes half belying with its melancholy the rapture of the smile.  Whether she spoke or whether she sang, her voice was music’s self, and he was longing for the next tone; and presently—­presently Lilian had faded like a phantom before this aurora who was fresh and rosy and dewy, with song and color and light—­a sad pale phantom wan in a mist of tears.