“She was ashamed,” said Carlotta in a low voice, “because she loved some one afterwards, one of the gods, who would not look at her because she had given herself to a mortal. A woman then has a fire here”—she clasped her hands to her bosom—“and wishes she could burn away to nothing, nothing, just to air, and become invisible.”
She was rising hurriedly on the last word, but I brought my hands down on her shoulders.
“Carlotta, my child,” said I, “what do you mean?”
She seized my wrists and struggling to rise, panted out in desperation:
“You are one of the gods, and I wish I were changed into an invisible star.”
“I don’t,” said I, huskily.
By main force I drew her to me and our lips met. She yielded, and this time the whole soul of Carlotta came to me in the kiss.
“It’s beautiful to snuggle up against you again,” said my ever direct Carlotta, after a while. “I haven’t done it—oh, for such a long time.” She sighed contentedly. “Seer Marcous—”
“You must call me Marcus now,” said I, somewhat fatuously.
She shook her head as it lay on my shoulder. “No. You are Marcus—or Sir Marcus—to everybody. To me you are always Seer Marcous. Seer Marcous, darling,” she half whispered after a pause. “Once I did not know the difference between a god and a mortal. It was only that morning when I woke up—”