These and many other things were enough to convince Nina that his love was real, without the final proof when he had risked his life for her.  In mere gratitude she would have made the effort to care for him.  And yet the more she tried to encourage her sentiments, the more they baffled her.  From the first she had felt timid of something unknown in Giovanni.  She had thought herself in danger of being attracted too much, but now she felt that, throughout, the fear had been of another sort, a fear which she could not analyze.

“What is the matter with me?” she whispered brokenly to St. Anthony.  “We love Giovanni, don’t we?  We do!  We do!” But her words were meaningless sounds that echoed hollowly.

Then slowly she noted the great gallery filled with things flawless—­the mellow canvases of the old masters, the marvelous statuary, perfect even in the brilliant light streaming through the eastern windows; and her thoughts turned backwards to that day when the allure of antiquity had most strongly held her—­that day when she had first seen Giovanni dance.  As the recollection grew in vividness, she was again aware of the same strange sensation that she had felt then.  It was as though she were living in a past age, with which she, as Nina Randolph, had nothing to do.  Her name might be Tullia or Claudia!

And then once again the memory of Giovanni’s high-bred charm, no less than of his great estate, which she was now asked to share, seemed to hold a spell of enchantment.  His words, “Carissima, I love you,” swept through her memory with a thrill that the spoken words themselves had failed to carry.  She laid her cheek down on the dog’s great head, her mouth close to a pointed ear.  “We do love him, thou and I,” she whispered in Italian, “and we will stay here always—­always.”

She unclasped her arms from about the dog’s neck and sat up straight, determined to hurry back through the rooms, before the queer fear should seize her anew.  She would not wait to analyze her feelings again; she would go straight to the sofa and say to Giovanni’s ardent, appealing eyes—­his beautiful Italian eyes—­“Yes.”

But even as the resolve was shaped, there followed swift upon it an overwhelming wave of doubt that made her clasp her hands to still the turmoil within her breast.  It was as if an inner voice repeated, clearly and insistently, “You don’t love him!  You don’t love him!”

The dog lifted one huge paw and put it on her knee, his head went up, he pushed his cold nose against her cheek, and as she lifted her chin, to escape his over-affectionate caress, her glance fell by chance on a picture of Ruth and Naomi.  On the day when she had first come into the gallery Giovanni had repeated, in French, the words of Ruth; and now, as she gazed absently at the picture, she found that she was saying to herself, not in French but in English, “Thy people shall be my people——­” Gradually an indescribable, comforted, soothed feeling crept over her, as she looked into the true, steadfast eyes of the pictured Ruth—­hers were indeed the eyes of one who could follow faithfully to the ends of the earth.