“Certainly.”
“I suppose it’s the white dress.”
“Or yourself; you can work miracles, you can assume what appearance you choose.”
“What am I like to-night?” asked Lucia, languidly.
“You are like a sorceress,” replied Andrea, with an accent of profound conviction.
Her eyes questioned him, eager to know more.
“A witch ... a sorceress....” he repeated, as if in reply to an inner voice. The clock struck nine times, but neither of them paid heed to it. Stillness filled the room, which was lighted by a shaded lamp. No sound reached it. Nothing. Two people alone, looking at each other. The long pauses seemed to them full of a sweet significance; they could not resume their talk without an effort. They spoke in lowered tones and very slowly. He drew no nearer, neither did she withdraw her hand.
“What perfume do you use in your hair?”
“None.”
“Oh! but it is perfumed. I could smell it just now....”