“No; but full of sympathy, God knows!” replied he.

In truth, his suspicions, however warranted by the mystery in which Miriam was enveloped, had vanished in the earnestness of his kindly and sorrowful emotion.  He was now ready to receive her trust.

“Keep your sympathy, then, for sorrows that admit of such solace,” said she, making a strong effort to compose herself.  “As for my griefs, I know how to manage them.  It was all a mistake:  you can do nothing for me, unless you petrify me into a marble companion for your Cleopatra there; and I am not of her sisterhood, I do assure you.  Forget this foolish scene, my friend, and never let me see a reference to it in your eyes when they meet mine hereafter.”

“Since you desire it, all shall be forgotten,” answered the sculptor, pressing her hand as she departed; “or, if ever I can serve you, let my readiness to do so be remembered.  Meanwhile, dear Miriam, let us meet in the same clear, friendly light as heretofore.”

“You are less sincere than I thought you,” said Miriam, “if you try to make me think that there will be no change.”

As he attended her through the antechamber, she pointed to the statue of the pearl-diver.

“My secret is not a pearl,” said she; “yet a man might drown himself in plunging after it.”

After Kenyon had closed the door, she went wearily down the staircase, but paused midway, as if debating with herself whether to return.

“The mischief was done,” thought she; “and I might as well have had the solace that ought to come with it.  I have lost,—­by staggering a little way beyond the mark, in the blindness of my distress, I have lost, as we shall hereafter find, the genuine friendship of this clear-minded, honorable, true-hearted young man, and all for nothing.  What if I should go back this moment and compel him to listen?”

She ascended two or three of the stairs, but again paused, murmured to herself, and shook her head.

“No, no, no,” she thought; “and I wonder how I ever came to dream of it.  Unless I had his heart for my own,—­and that is Hilda’s, nor would I steal it from her,—­it should never be the treasure Place of my secret.  It is no precious pearl, as I just now told him; but my dark-red carbuncle—­red as blood—­is too rich a gem to put into a stranger’s casket.”

She went down the stairs, and found her shadow waiting for her in the street.

CHAPTER XV

AN AESTHETIC COMPANY

On the evening after Miriam’s visit to Kenyon’s studio, there was an assemblage composed almost entirely of Anglo-Saxons, and chiefly of American artists, with a sprinkling of their English brethren; and some few of the tourists who still lingered in Rome, now that Holy Week was past.  Miriam, Hilda, and the sculptor were all three present, and with them Donatello, whose life was so far turned from fits natural bent that, like a pet spaniel, he followed his beloved mistress wherever he could gain admittance.