“What an exquisite place this is! What a pity you are all alone in it.”
“Solitude has its compensations, if not its distractions,” he answered; he was profoundly distrustful of her simple, natural, friendly manner, which seemed to him more dangerous than any other; he believed it to be assumed on purpose to put him off his guard. He thought the Circe who now endeavored to beguile him one of the loveliest women he had ever seen, and he felt convinced that she was also one of the most dangerous. But she aroused neither interest nor curiosity in him, though his mind acknowledged her potent charms.
“Do you never regret?” she asked abruptly.
“Who can outlive youth without regret?” he replied. He was hostile to her in his mind. He felt her charm, but he resented her approaches. He could not but perceive her desire to draw him into confidential conversation, and the reserve which was natural to him increased in proportion to her persistent endeavor to overcome it.
In herself, she was irritated and discouraged; but she concealed both feelings, and summoned all her courage.
“Is there a portrait of your wife here?” she asked abruptly, turning and facing him.
He grew pale to his lips, and an expression of intense pain passed over his countenance.
“Madame,” he said very coldly, “that lady’s name must not be mentioned to me.”
“Oh, you know, I am a very impertinent person!” she answered lightly. “Perhaps you will say I am a very ill-bred one. But her story has always had a fascination for me. They say she is such a very beautiful person.”
He said nothing; he retained his composure with difficulty; this audacious stranger probed a wound which he would not have allowed his most intimate friend to touch.