But she did not spring to meet him, as he hoped and expected, and thrilled by the music of his tone she grew paler standing quite still, with trembling lips and eyes that shone like stars when autumn mists begin to gather.

“My Lily, come to me, of your own dear will.”

“Mr. Palma, I am glad, very glad, to see my guardian once more.”

She put out her hand, which shook, despite her efforts to keep it steady, and her own voice sounded far, far off, like an echo lost among strange hills.

He came a step nearer, but did not take her hand, and when he leaned toward her, she suddenly clasped her hands and rested her chin upon them, in the old childish fashion he remembered so well.

“Does my Lily know why I crossed the Atlantic?”

A spasm of pain quivered over her features, and though he saw how white her lips turned at that instant, her answer was clear, cold, and distinct.

“Yes, sir.  You came on your bridal tour.  Is not your wife at Como?”

“I hope so.  I believe so; I certainly expected to see her here.”

He was smiling very proudly just then, but beginning to suspect that he had tortured her cruelly by the tacit imposture to which he had assented, his eyes dimmed at the thought of her suffering.

She misinterpreted the smile, and quickly rallied.

“Mr. Palma, I hope you brought Llora also with you?”

“No.  Why should I?  She is much better off at home with her mother.”

“But, sir, I thought—­I understood——­”

She caught her breath, and a perplexed expression came into her wistful deep eyes, as she met those, fixed laughingly upon her.

“You thought, you understood what?  That after living single all these years, I am at last foolish enough to want a wife?  One to kiss, to hold in my arms, to love even better than I love myself?  Well, what then?  I do not deny it.”

“And I hope, Mr. Palma, that she will make you very happy.”

She spoke with the startling energy of desperation.

“Thank you, so do I. I believe, I know she will; I swear she shall!  Can you tell me my darling’s name?”

“Yes, sir, it is no secret.  All the world knows it is Mrs. Carew.”

She was leaning heavily upon her womanly pride; how long would it sustain her?  Would it snap presently, and let her down for ever into the dust of humiliation?

Mr. Palma laughed, and putting his hand under her chin, lifted the face.

“All the world is very wise, and my ward quite readily accepted its teachings.  None but Olga suspected the truth.  I would not marry Brunella Carew, if she were the last woman left living on the wide earth.  I do not want a fashion-moth.  I would not have the residue of what once belonged to another.  I want a tender, pure, sweet, fresh white flower that I know, and have long watched expanding from its pretty bud.  I want my darling, whom no other man has kissed, who never loved any one but me; who will come like the lily she is, and shelter herself in my strong arms, and bloom out all her fragrant loveliness in my heart only.  Will she come?”