An elderly man, evidently a foreigner, wearing the violet ribbon of the French Academy in his buttonhole, was standing with a young girl in the crowd around the easel.
“Why, look, papa! That face!” the girl cried, when her eyes fell upon the canvas. “It is her portrait! Surely the Signore cannot know!”
“Dio!” exclaimed the old man, evidently recognising the features. “The picture is indeed magnificent; but to think that she should allow herself to appear in that character! Come away, Zélie; let us go.”
I heard no more, for they turned and left. Having acted as eavesdropper, I could hardly question them. Nevertheless, I was sorely puzzled.
“Look! Read that!”
In surprise I glanced up from my work of romance-weaving on the following morning, and saw Dick, pale and agitated, standing at my elbow.
The letter he placed before me was in a woman’s hand, and emitted the faintest breath of violets. A glance was sufficient to recognise that the sprawly writing was Ethel’s.
Taking it up, I eagerly read the following lines it contained:—
“Dear Dick,—I regret to tell you that circumstances preclude me from ever meeting you again. I am going far away, where you cannot find me. It was foolish for us to have loved, therefore forget me. That you may meet some one far worthier than myself, and that ‘Circe’ may bring you fame and fortune, is the most sincere hope of your models.
“Ethel.”