I cannot tell what air of recognition I found in her voice and manner. Instantly, however, I remembered a half-forgotten period, like a queer dream; a name was upon my lips, but I could not utter it. I stammered a question.
“Well, well,” she said, amused; “they tell me I have altered; yet—why, don’t you remember Ninetta?”
“Ninetta! Do you remember when last we met?” I asked earnestly.
“Yes,” she murmured; “but do not speak of it. Such memories are painful.”
“If to you, none the less to me, Ninetta,” I replied, looking into her sad, wan face.
Her lips quivered, and tears stole down her cheeks.
During a whole hour it was nothing but expressions of surprise and vague regret. To the depth of our beings we felt the voice of these recollections. We were speaking of them, when suddenly she withdrew her hand, and a red flush mounted to her forehead.
“But you soon forgot me when you went away,” she said reproachfully. “And I have never ceased to think of you. It was strange, playing a game of dominoes for your life, wasn’t it?”
I rose and gazed at her. She was seated, her eyes riveted on the dying embers of the fire, her cheek resting upon her hand, appearing to have forgotten my presence. There was nothing awkward in the long silence that followed. We both felt too deeply for idle words. As we contemplated our past, the wind whistled without, the thunder pealed, and the rain fell furiously.