"Fior di mortelle
Queste manine tue son tanto belle!
Fior di limone
Ti voglio far morire di passione
Salta! lari—lira."
The letter Zara had brought me was from Mrs. Everard, announcing that she would arrive in Paris that very day, Sunday.
"By the time you get this note," so ran her words, "we shall have landed at the Grand Hotel. Come and see us at once, if you can. The Colonel is anxious to judge for himself how you are looking. If you are really recovered sufficiently to leave your medical pension, we shall be delighted to have you with us again. I, in particular, shall be glad, for it is real lonesome when the Colonel is out, and I do hate to go shopping by myself, So take pity upon your affectionate
"AMY."
Seated at breakfast, I discussed this letter with Heliobas and Zara, and decided that I would call at the Grand Hotel that morning.
"I wish you would come with me, Zara," I said wistfully.
To my surprise, she answered:
"Certainly I will, if you like. But we will attend High Mass at Notre Dame first. There will be plenty of time for the call afterwards."
I gladly agreed to this, and Heliobas added with cheerful cordiality:
"Why not ask your friends to dine here to-morrow? Zara's call will be a sufficient opening formality; and you yourself have been long enough with us now to know that any of your friends will be welcome here. We might have a pleasant little party, especially if you add Mr. and Mrs. Challoner and their daughters to the list. And I will ask Ivan."
I glanced at Zara when the Prince's name was uttered, but she made no sign of either offence or indifference.