“What church are you going to?”

“St. Mary’s, Welby Street.”

“Shall I go with you?”

Rosamund had taken up the “Paradiso” and was shutting it.

“I think I’ll go alone,” she said gently but quite firmly.

“What are you reading?”

“Dante’s ‘Paradiso.’”

She put the book down on a table at her elbow.

“I don’t believe you meant me to be let in,” he said bluntly.

“I didn’t know it was you.  How could I know?”

“And if you had known?”

She hesitated.  His brows contracted till he looked almost fierce.

“I’m not sure.  Honestly I’m not sure.  I’ve been quite alone since Friday, when they went.  And I’d got it into my head that I wasn’t going to see any one till to-morrow, except, of course, at the church.”

Dion felt chilled almost to the bone.

“I can’t understand,” he almost burst out, in an uncontrolled way that surprised himself.  “Are you completely self-sufficing then?  But it isn’t natural.  Could you live alone?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She looked at him steadily and calmly, without a hint of anger.

“But could you?”

“I don’t know.  Probably not.  I’ve never tried.”

“But you don’t hate the idea?”

His voice was almost violent.

“No; if—­if I were living in a certain way.”

“What way?”

But she did not answer his question.

“I dare say I might dislike living alone.  I’ve never done such a thing, therefore I can’t tell.”

“You’re an enigma,” he exclaimed.  “And you seem so—­so—­you have this extraordinary, this abnormal power of attracting people to you.  You are friends with everybody.”

“Indeed I’m not.”

“I mean you’re so cordial, so friendly with everybody.  Don’t you care for anybody?”

“I care very much for some people.”

“And yet you could live alone!  Shut in here for days with a book”—­at that moment he was positively jealous of old Dante, gone to his rest five hundred and seventy-four years ago—­“you’re perfectly happy.”

“The ‘Paradiso’ isn’t an ordinary book,” she said, very gently, and looking at him with a kind, almost beaming expression in her yellow-brown eyes.

“I don’t believe you ever read an ordinary book.”

“I like to feed on fine things.  I’m half afraid of the second-rate.”

“I love you for that.  Oh, Rosamund, I love you for so many things!”

He got up and stood by the fire, turning his back to her for a moment.  When he swung round his face was earnest but he looked calmer.  She saw that he was making a strong effort to hold himself in, that he was reaching out after self-control.

“I can’t tell you all the things I love you for,” he said, “but your independence of spirit frightens me.  From the very first, from that evening when I saw you in the omnibus at the Milan Station over a year ago, I felt your independence.”