She thought at once of Pollux, and asked herself why the story of her sufferings should have moved him so deeply if he were not in love with her.  Then she began to seek some colorable ground for what she had heard as she went past the screen behind which he had been working.  He had never told her plainly that he loved her.  Why should he, an artist and a bright, high spirited young fellow, not be allowed to jest with a pretty girl, even if his heart belonged to another.  No, she was not indifferent to him:  that she had felt that night when she had stood as his model, and now—­as she thought—­I could guess, nay, feel sure of, from Mary’s story.

The longer she thought of him, the more she began to long to see him whom she had loved so dearly even as a child.  Her heart had never yet beat for any other man, but since she had met Pollux again in the hall of the Muses, his image had filled her whole soul, and what she now felt must be love—­could be nothing else.  Half awake, but half asleep, she pictured him to herself, entering this quiet room, sitting down by the head of her couch, and looking with his kind eyes into hers.  Ah! and how could she help it—­she sat up and opened her arms to him.

“Be still, my child, he still,” said Hannah.  “It is not good for you to move about so much.”

Selene opened her eyes, but only to close them again and to dream for some time longer till she was startled from her rest by loud voices in the garden.  Hannah left the room, and her voice presently mingled with those of the other persons outside, and when she returned her cheeks were flushed and she could not find fitting words in which to tell her patient what she had to say.

“A very big man, in the most outrageous dress,” she said at last, “wanted to be let in; when the gatekeeper refused, he forced his way in.  He asked for you.”

“For me,” said Selene, blushing.

“Yes, my child, he brought a large and beautiful nosegay of flowers, and said ‘your friend at Lochias sends you his greeting.’”

“My friend at Lochias?” murmured thoughtfully Selene to herself.  Then her eyes sparkled with gladness, and she asked quickly: 

You said the man who brought the flowers was very tall.”

“He was.”

“Oh please, dame Hannah, let me see the flowers?” cried Selene, trying to raise herself.

“Have you a lover, child?” asked the widow.

“A lover?—­no, but there is a young man with whom we always used to play when we were quite little—­an artist, a kind, good man—­and the nosegay must be from him.”

Hannah looked with sympathy at the girl, and signing to Mary she said: 

“The nosegay is a very large one.  You may see it, but it must not remain in the room; the smell of so many flowers might do you harm.”

Mary rose from her seat at the head of the bed, and whispered to the sick girl: