She shook her head.
"Then you shivered at a thought," I ventured. "Please to tell me what it was?"
"I thought of death," she said, and turning, looked into my eyes. Her own were alight with a rich sombre glow.
"Of death! and why of death—to-day?"
"Death, Agar, my friend," she answered—she had named me so since morning,—"is never long a stranger from my thoughts."
"What! and you so young, so beautiful," I cried.
"It is because I fear death, Agar. I have seen him in a thousand forms, and each form was more dreadful than the last. There are some who grow familiar with his face and finish by despising him. I, on the contrary, fear him more and more. But you, my friend, how do you regard him?"
"I have never asked myself the question."
"Then ask it now!"
"A morbid fancy, Marion!"