That she deliberately did—with one ceremony, characteristic of her frugality. She opened a locked drawer, and looked at its contents. There lay three goodly piles of letters, tied with blue ribbon. Each packet was labelled “Jack to Me,” and dated with beginning and ending. She contented herself with looking at them, smiling wisely and thoughtfully as she did so. Then, like a child, not trusting to her eyes alone, she looked at them with her fingers; touched them delicately in turn, with a caress. Immediately afterwards she locked them up; and turned to her disrobing. She slept quietly, and went about her affairs of the morrow with a calmness that surprised her.
At a later day, in a conversation which Morosine had with her, he permitted himself a reference to the Museum. “You go no more? They've done their work—the Three?”
She smiled upon him, looking up from a little blue-covered book which lay half-cut upon her lap. It had arrived by the post that morning without message, or even inscription. But it was dedicated, she observed, “To the Fairest,” and had smiled wisely to herself, observing it. A finger in the book, she answered Morosine. “Yes, they've done their work. I'm much happier now. I've thrown up my arms, you see. I'm drowning.” She suddenly blushed, to remember her dream; and he perceived it.
“Drowning?” he asked.
“Drifting with the tide,” she explained. “And I like it.”
It was on his tongue to refer to Tristan, but—such was her hardihood—she saved him the trouble. “I was fearfully excited with the opera. During the performance, and after it.”
His heart beat high. “You were not more so than I was,” he said, looking at her. “I thought of things possible and impossible. I had a vision.”
So had she had a vision, whose force was such that she could not continue to talk of such things. She had flashed her eyes upon him vividly for a moment, but was compelled to turn them away. He read in them a wild surmise; he thought that she understood him and was perturbed—perturbed, but not displeased. The bustling entry of Chevenix, unannounced, prevented him from pursuing his campaign.
Chevenix was gay. “Hulloa, Sancie—this is ripping. I say, I have something frightfully interesting to tell you.” Then he saw Morosine. “Hulloa, Alexis, is that you? Now we'll sit each other out, and Sancie won't have her news.”
“But I hope I shall,” she cried. “I haven't got a secret in the world. Don't go, Prince, please. Mr. Chevenix shall tell you the news too. I haven't the faintest idea.”