“Luna fedel, tu chiama
     Col raggio ed io col suon,
     La fulgida mia dama
     Sul gotico veron!”

“You know,” he went on impetuously—­“You know I told you before that I am not a society man.  I said that if I came to dinner to meet your London friends, I should be very much in the way.  You have found me so.  A man of my age and of my settled habits and convictions ought to avoid society altogether.  It is not possible for him to accommodate himself to it.  For instance,—­see how old-fashioned and strait-laced I am!—­I wish I had been miles away from St. Rest before I had ever seen you smoking!  It is a trifle, perhaps,—­but it is one of those trifles which stick in the memory and embitter the mind!”

Around them the air seemed to break and divide into pulsations of melody as Cicely sang: 

    “Diro che sei d’argente
     D’opale, d’ambra e d’or,
     Diro che incanti il vento,
     E che innamori i fior!”

“You have seemed to me such an ideal of English womanhood!”—­he went on dreamily, hardly aware how far his words were carrying him—­“The sweet and fitting mistress of this dear old house, richly endowed as it is with noblest memories of the noble dead!  Their proud and tender spirit has looked out of your eyes—­or so I have fancied;—­ and you are naturally so kind and gentle—­you have been so good to the people in the village,—­they all love you—­they all wish to think well of you;—­for you have proved yourself practically as well as emotionally sympathetic to them.  And, above all things, you have appeared so pre-eminently delicate and dainty in your tastes—­so maidenly!—­I should as soon have expected to see the Greek Psyche smoking as you!”

She took a swift step towards him, and laid her hand on his arm.

“Can’t you forget it?” she said.

He looked at her.  Her eyes were humid, and her lips trembled a little.

“Forget what?” he asked gently.

“That I smoked!”

He hesitated a second.

“I will try!”

“You see!”—­went on Maryllia, coaxingly—­“we shall have to live in the same parish, and we shall be compelled to meet each other often--and it would never do for you to be always thinking of that cigarette!  Now would it?”

He was silent.  The little hand on his arm gave an insistent pressure.

“Of course when you conjure up such an awful picture as Psyche smoking, I know just how you feel about it!” And her eyes sparkled up at him with an arch look which, fortunately for his peace of mind, his own eyes did not meet,—­“And naturally you must hold very strong opinions on the subject,—­dreadfully strong!  But then—­nobody has ever thought me at all like Psyche before—­so you so—­you see!—­ " She paused, and John began to feel his heart beating uncomfortably fast.  “It’s very nice to be compared to Psyche anyhow!—­and of course she would look impossible and awful with