Zara shook her head and smiled half sadly.

“I told you it was a favour I had to ask of you,” she said; “and now you are unwilling to grant it.”

“I am not unwilling—­believe me, dearest, I would do anything to please you,” I assured her; “but it seems so strange to me that you should wish the result of your labour destroyed, simply because you are going on a journey.”

“Strange as it seems, I desire it most earnestly,” said Zara; “otherwise—­but if you will not see it done for me, I must preside at the work of demolition myself, though I frankly confess it would be most painful to me.”

I interrupted her.

“Say no more, Zara!” I exclaimed; “I will do as you wish.  When you are gone, you say—­”

“When I am gone,” repeated Zara firmly, “and before you yourself leave this house, you will see that particular statue destroyed.  You will thus do me a very great service.”

“Well,” I said, “and when are you coming back again?  Before I leave Paris?”

“I hope so—­I think so,” she replied evasively; “at any rate, we shall meet again soon.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

She smiled.  Such a lovely, glad, and triumphant smile!

“You will know my destination before to-night has passed away,” she answered.  “In the meanwhile I have your promise?”

“Most certainly.”

She kissed me, and as she did so, a lurid flash caught my eyes and almost dazzled them.  It was a gleam of fiery lustre from the electric jewel she wore.

The day went on its usual course, and the weather seemed to grow murkier every hour.  The air was almost sultry, and when during the afternoon I went into the conservatory to gather some of the glorious Marechal Niel roses that grew there in such perfection, the intense heat of the place was nearly insupportable.  I saw nothing of Heliobas all day, and, after the morning, very little of Zara.  She disappeared soon after luncheon, and I could not find her in her rooms nor in her studio, though I knocked at the door several times.  Leo, too, was missing.  After being alone for an hour or more, I thought I would pay a visit to the chapel.  But on attempting to carry out this intention I found its doors locked—­an unusual circumstance which rather surprised me.  Fancying that I heard the sound of voices within, I paused to listen.  But all was profoundly silent.  Strolling into the hall, I took up at random from a side-table a little volume of poems, unknown to me, called “Pygmalion in Cyprus;” and seating myself in one of the luxurious Oriental easy-chairs near the silvery sparkling fountain, I began to read.  I opened the book I held at “A Ballad of Kisses,” which ran as follows: 

   “There are three kisses that I call to mind,
   And I will sing their secrets as I go,—­
   The first, a kiss too courteous to be kind,
   Was such a kiss as monks and maidens know,
   As sharp as frost, as blameless as the snow.