"You—you!" he choked. His arms were hungry for her, his heart was melting with the wildest ecstasy that had ever possessed it. She was clad as he often remembered her, in a dress which partook of her favorite and inseparable color, her hair shone with that unforgettable luster; her face was the face he had dreamed of, and there was no shock of readjustment in his recognition of her. Rather, her real presence made the cherished mental image seem poor and weak.
"I came to see Miss Fabrizi. Why are you here?" He glanced at the door as if expecting an interruption.
"I am she."
"Contessa!"
"Hush!" She laid her fingers upon his lips. "I am no longer the
Contessa Margherita. I am Vittoria Fabrizi."
"Then—you have been here—in New Orleans for a long time?"
"More than a year."
"Impossible! I—You—It's inconceivable! Why have we never met?"
"I have seen you many times."
"And you didn't speak? Why, oh, why, Margherita?"