“Anglesea was devoted to Saviola, and expressed the most profound esteem and admiration for him. He asked permission to bring the young Italian to call on us.
“It was an indiscreet request to make; but Anglesea was young and impulsive.
“It was an improper favor to grant, but my governess was vain and faithless, and had herself taken a fancy to the young Italian, so she consented that he should come.
“The intervening time between this day and the day of the visit was passed by me in a state of feverish anticipation.
“The next evening Anglesea brought Saviola. He was much more attractive than ever. He talked mostly with Madame de la Champe, but I felt that he looked mostly at me—at me, who scarcely ever uttered a word.
“This was the first of many calls—for some time made only in the company of his friend, and received by me only in the company of one or both of my governesses.
“How can I tell you the progress of that infatuation, hallucination—call it what you please—that kindled at the first meeting, and increased with every after interview?
“Saviola never sat by my side in those early days; never took my hand, except at meeting and parting, when, with the reverential tenderness of his race, he would raise it to his lips, bowing over it. He scarcely ever addressed me with words, but with glances—how eloquently! All the wooing was done through the passionate eyes.
“At first I could not look at him at all; then only very shyly; and then at length my eyes seemed irresistibly attracted to meet his—even to seek to meet his eys.
“Oh, Abel, I am telling you everything! I am unveiling my heart to you! How will you receive my confession? Will you believe that there was no conscious sense of wrongdoing at the time? But, indeed, there was none. Will you believe the stranger truth that this was not love which I gave to Luigi? I did not know what love meant until I met the one love of my life—years after this lunacy. Oh, Abel, believe that this delirium was not love, though even I, knowing no better, mistook it for love at the time. It was madness; it was hero-worship, enthusiasm. But not love. This young Italian exile, beautiful as Adonis in his person, was idealized and glorified in my vision by his history.