My heart sank at the thought of parting from her, and I looked wistfully at her lovely face.  Leo had followed her in from the studio, and seemed still very melancholy.

“We shall always be good friends, Zara dearest,” I said, “shall we not?  Close, fond friends, like sisters?”

“Sisters are not always fond of each other,” remarked Zara, half gaily.  “And you know ’there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother’!”

“And what friend is that in your case?” I asked, half jestingly, half curiously.

“Death!” she replied with a strange smile, in which there was both pathos and triumph.

I started at her unexpected reply, and a kind of foreboding chilled my blood.  I endeavoured, however, to speak cheerfully as I said: 

“Why, of course, death sticks more closely to us than any friend or relative.  But you look fitter to receive the embraces of life than of death, Zara.”

“They are both one and the same thing,” she answered; “or rather, the one leads to the other.  But do not let us begin to philosophize.  Put on your things and come.  The carriage is waiting.”

I readily obeyed her, and we enjoyed an exhilarating drive together.  The rest of the day passed with us all very pleasantly and our conversation had principally to do with the progress of art and literature in many lands, and maintained itself equably on the level of mundane affairs.  Among other things, we spoke of the Spanish violinist Sarasate, and I amused Heliobas by quoting to him some of the criticisms of the London daily papers on this great artist, such as, “He plays pieces which, though adapted to show his wonderful skill, are the veriest clap-trap;” “He lacks breadth and colour;” “A true type of the artist virtuoso,” etc., etc.

“Half these people do not know in the least what they mean by ‘breadth and colour’ or ‘virtuosity,’” said Heliobas, with a smile.  “They think emotion, passion, all true sentiment combined with extraordinary technique, must be ‘clap-trap.’  Now the Continent of Europe acknowledges Pablo de Sarasate as the first violinist living, and London would not be London unless it could thrust an obtuse opposing opinion in the face of the Continent.  England is the last country in the world to accept anything new.  Its people are tired and blase; like highly trained circus-horses, they want to trot or gallop always in the old grooves.  It will always be so.  Sarasate is like a brilliant meteor streaming across their narrow bit of the heaven of music; they stare, gape, and think it is an unnatural phenomenon—­a ‘virtuosity’ in the way of meteors, which they are afraid to accept lest it set them on fire.  What would you?  The meteor shines and burns; it is always a meteor!”

So, talking lightly, and gliding from subject to subject, the hours wore away, and we at last separated for the night.

I shall always be glad to remember how tenderly Zara kissed me and wished me good repose; and I recall now, with mingled pain, wonder, and gratitude, how perfectly calm and contented I felt as, after my prayers, I sank to sleep, unwarned, and therefore happily unconscious, of what awaited me on the morrow.