And pouring out a glass of water I handed it to her.  She sipped it slowly, leaning back in the fauteuil where I had placed her, and in silence we both looked out on the November night.  There was a moon, but she was veiled by driving clouds, which ever and anon swept asunder to show her gleaming pallidly white, like the restless spirit of a deceived and murdered lady.  A rising wind moaned dismally among the fading creepers and rustled the heavy branches of a giant cypress that stood on the lawn like a huge spectral mourner draped in black, apparently waiting for a forest funeral.  Now and then a few big drops of rain fell-sudden tears wrung as though by force from the black heart of the sky.  My wife shivered.

“Shut the window!” she said, glancing back at me where I stood behind her chair.  “I am much better now.  I was very silly.  I do not know what came over me, but for the moment I felt afraid—­horribly afraid!—­of you!”

“That was not complimentary to your future husband,” I remarked, quietly, as I closed and fastened the window in obedience to her request.  “Should I not insist upon an apology?”

She laughed nervously, and played with her ring of rose-brilliants.

“It is not yet too late,” I resumed, “if on second thoughts you would rather not marry me, you have only to say so.  I shall accept my fate with equanimity, and shall not blame you.”

At this she seemed quite alarmed, and rising, laid her hand pleadingly on my arm.

“Surely you are not offended?” she said.  “I was not really afraid of you, you know—­it was a stupid fancy—­I cannot explain it.  But I am quite well now, and I am only too happy.  Why, I would not lose your love for all the world—­you must believe me!”

And she touched my hand caressingly with her lips.  I withdrew it gently, and stroked her hair with an almost parental tenderness; then I said quietly: 

“If so, we are agreed, and all is well.  Let me advise you to take a long night’s rest:  your nerves are weak and somewhat shaken.  You wish me to keep our engagement secret?”

She thought for a moment, then answered musingly: 

“For the present perhaps it would be best.  Though,” and she laughed, “it would be delightful to see all the other women jealous and envious of my good fortune!  Still, if the news were told to any of our friends—­who knows?—­it might accidentally reach Guido, and—­”

“I understand!  You may rely upon my discretion.  Good-night, contessa!”

“You may call me Nina,” she murmured, softly.

“Nina, then,” I said, with some effort, as I lightly kissed her.  “Good-night!—­may your dreams be of me!” She responded to this with a gratified smile, and as I left the room she waved her hand in a parting salute.  My diamonds flashed on it like a small circlet of fire; the light shed through the rose-colored lamps that hung from the painted ceiling fell full on her exquisite loveliness,