"Why?—no, and I doubt if you do."
For a moment she was silent; then he watched the curious physical fascination grow in her smile.
"I came because I had a very vivid dream about you on the boat last night," she said, "I dreamed of that evening, during the first winter, in my dressing-room after the second act in 'Faust.' I thought I had forgotten it, but in my sleep it all came clearly back again—every minute and—"
"And?" the word burst from him eagerly as he leaned toward her.
"I broke a bottle of perfume, do you remember?" her soft laugh shook in her full, white throat, "your coat still smelt of it next day, you said."
Her wonderful voice, softened now to a speaking tone, seemed to endow each word, not only with melody, but with form and colour. They became living things to him while she spoke, and the night he had almost forgotten, stood out presently as in the glow of a conflagration of his memory. He smelt again the perfume which she had spilled on his coat; he saw again the fading roses, heaped on chairs and tables, that overflowed her dressing room. It was the night of her great triumph—the eyes with which she looked at him still held the intoxication of her own music—and it was to the applause of a multitude, that, alone with her behind the scenes, he had first taken her in his arms.
"It's all over, I tell you," he said angrily; "so what's the use of this?"
"It's never over!—it's never over!" she repeated in her singing voice.
She was very close to him at last; but breaking away with an effort, he crossed the room and laid his hand upon the door.
"It was over forever two years ago," he said, "and now good-bye!"