“No.”
Now, I knew very well he never had been; for, as I have said, the last ten years we had spent together; but at present I was bent upon the intent of discovering what probability there was that such a catastrophe could ever be brought about; so I said again,—
“Reinhart, do you think you ever will be in love?”
I expected a repetition of my former answer, but, to my surprise, without any hesitation, he replied,—
“Yes.”
“Indeed!” I gasped, with my breath almost gone,—“and when may it come to pass?”
Looking up, I dropped the tone of raillery I had been using immediately, for I saw it was a serious matter to him; and overcome by astonishment, I subsided into complete silence.
The perfume of roses came in on the breeze, and a scarlet-cloaked flower-girl carrying her wares, the only person on the street, turned out of sight. A small bird, with red plumes in its wings, lighted nearly within reach, upon the tree, and broke into song, but, checking the strain almost in the first note, it flew away, settling, a mere speck, upon the northern spire of the Cathedral. Then Reinhart said, as though there had been no pause in the conversation,—
“I do not know; it may never come in this life.”
I looked at him, thoroughly puzzled, almost frightened. Then, thinking perhaps I had not heard aright, said,—“What?” But, without heeding my interrogation, he continued,—