Susanna returned her cue to the rack.

Anthony stood near the door, an incarnate question.

"Well—?" he demanded, in a voice that was tense.

"Come in," she amiably welcomed him. "Sit down."

She pointed to a chair. She wore the same white frock that she had worn before luncheon, only she had stuck a red rose in her belt.

He did n't sit down, but he came forward, and stood by the fireplace.

"What an age, what an eternity it has been," he profoundly sighed. "I have grown grey waiting for this instant."

She studied him, with amusement.

"The grey is very skilfully concealed," she remarked.

"The grey is in my soul," said he, with the accent of tragedy.
"Well—?" he again demanded.

"Well what?" teased she, arching her eye-brows innocently.

"Oh, come," he remonstrated. "Don't torture a defenceless animal. Seal my fate, pronounce my doom. I love you—love you—love you. Will you have me?"

She stood silhouetted against a window, the light sifting and shining through her hair.

"I have a condition to make," she said. "You must promise to comply with my condition—and then I can answer you."

Her dark eyes smiled into his, quizzically, but perhaps with a kind of tenderness too.

He came nearer.

"A condition? What's the condition?"

"No—you must promise first to agree to it," she said.

"A promise in the dark?" he objected.

"Oh, if you can't trust me!" she cried, with a little shrug.

"There's mischief in your eye," said he. "The man deserves what he gets, who makes promises in the dark."

"Then make the promise—and see whether you get what you deserve," she laughed.

"Mercy forbid that any man should get what he deserves," said he. "I am a suppliant for grace, not justice."

Susanna laughed again. She took her rose from her belt, and brushed her face with it, touched it with her lips.

"Do you care for roses?" she asked, with a glance of intellectual curiosity, as one who spoke solely for the purpose of acquiring knowledge.

"I should care for that rose," said he, vehemently.

She held it out to him, still laughing, but with a difference.

He seized the rose—and suddenly, over-mastered by his impulse, suddenly, violently, made towards her.

But she drew away, extending her hands to protect herself.

"I beg your pardon," he said, pulling himself up. "But you should make a conscientious effort to be a trifle less adorable."

He pressed her rose to his mouth, crushing it, breathing in its scent, trying to possess himself of the touch her mouth had left upon it.

She sank into the corner of a sofa, and leaned back among the cushions.

"Well, do you promise?" she asked, smiling up at him.

"Do you flatter yourself that you 're a trifle less adorable now?" asked he, smiling down.

"Do you promise?" she repeated, taking away her eyes.

"I clean forget what it was you wished me to promise," said he.

"You are to promise to comply with my condition. Do you?"

"I suppose I must," he answered, with a gesture of submission.

"But do you? You must say"—she made her voice sepulchral—"'I solemnly do.'"

She gave him her eyes again, held him with them.

He was rigid for a minute, gazing fixedly at her.

"I solemnly do," he said at last, relaxing. "What's the condition?"

"The condition is an easy one—only a little journey to make."

"A journey to make? Away from Craford?"

He stood off, suspicious, prepared to be defiant.

"Yes," said she, playing with the lace of one of her cushions.

"Not for worlds," said he. "Anything else. But I won't leave Craford."

"You have promised," said she.

"Ah, but I did n't dream there would be any question of my leaving
Craford. There's a woman at Craford I 'm in love with. I won't leave
Craford."

"You have solemnly promised," said she.

"Hang my promise," gaily he outfaced her.

"Promises are sacred." She looked serious.

"Not promises extorted in the dark," contended he.

"Give me back my rose," said she, putting forth her hand.

"No," said he, pressing the rose anew to his face.

"Yes," said she, her foolhardy hand awaiting it.

For, instead of giving her back her rose, he threw himself upon her hand, and had kissed it before she could catch it away.

She bit her lip, frowning, smiling.

"Then will you keep your promise?" she asked severely.

"If you insist upon it, I suppose I 'll have to," he grudgingly consented. "But a journey!" he sighed. "Ah, well. Where to?"

Her eyes gleamed, maliciously.

"To a very pleasant place," she said. "The journey is a pious pilgrimage."

"Craford, just now, is the only pleasant place on the face of the earth," vowed he. "A pious pilgrimage? Where to?"

He had, I think, some vague notion that she might mean a pilgrimage to the Holy Well of St. Winefride in Wales; though, for that matter, why not to the Holy Well of St. Govor in Kensington Gardens?

"A pious pilgrimage to the home of your ancestors," said Susanna. "The journey is a journey to the little, unknown, beautiful island of Sampaolo."

Her eyes gleamed, maliciously, exultantly.

But Anthony fell back, aghast.

"Sampaolo?" he cried.

"Yes," said she, quietly.

"Oh, I say!" He writhed, he groaned. "That is too much. Really!"

"That is my condition," said Susanna. Her mouth was firm.

"You don't mean it—you can't mean it." He frowned his incredulity.

"I mean it literally," she persisted. "You must make a journey to
Sampaolo."

"But what's the sense of it?" he besought her. "Why on earth should you impose such a condition?" He frowned his incomprehension.

"Because you have asked me to be your wife," she answered.

He shook his head, mournfully, scornfully.

"If ever an explanation darkened counsel!" mournfully he jeered.

"You have asked me to be your wife. I reply that first you must make a journey to Sampaolo. Is that not simple?" said Susanna.

He was walking about the room.

"Do you mean to say "—he came to a standstill—"that if I make a journey to Sampaolo, you will be my wife?"

"I mean to say that I will never be your wife unless you do."

"But if I do—?"

She leaned back, smiling, among her cushions.

"That will depend upon the result of your journey."

He shook his head again.

"I 'm utterly at sea," he professed. "I have never heard anything that sounded so bewilderingly devoid of reason. Explain yourself. What is it all about?"

"Reflect for a moment," said she, assuming a tone argumentative. "Consider the embarrassment of my position. You ask me to be your wife. But if I consent, you give up your only chance of regaining your Italian patrimony—do you not? But a man should at least know what he is giving up. You should know what your patrimony consists of. You should know, as the saying is, what you 'stand to lose.' Therefore you must go to Sampaolo, and see it with your own eyes. Isola Nobile, Castel San Guido, the Palazzo Rosso, Villa Formosa—you must see them all, with their gardens and their pictures and their treasures. And then you must ask yourself in cold blood, 'Is that woman I left at Craford really worth it?'"

She smiled. But, as he made to speak, her hand commanded silence.

"No, no," she said. "You have not seen them yet, so you can't tell. When you have seen them, you will very likely thank me for leaving you free to-day. You will think, with a shudder, 'Good heavens, what a narrow escape! What if she had taken me at my word?' Then you can offer yourself to your cousin, and let us hope she 'll accept you."

Again, as he made to speak, her hand silenced him.

"But if," she went on, "if, by any chance, you should not thank me,—if, in cold blood, with your eyes open, you should decide that the woman you left at Craford is worth it,—why, then you can return to her, and renew your suit. And she'll have the satisfaction of knowing that you know what's she costing you."

Anthony stood over her, looked down upon her.

"This is the most awful nonsense," he said, with a grave half-laugh.

"It is my condition," said she. "You must start for Sampaolo to-morrow morning."

"You 'll never really send me on such a fool's errand," he protested.

"You have promised," said she.

"You won't hold me to the promise."

"If I release you from it," she warned him, her eyes becoming dangerous, "there must be no more talk of marriage between you and me."

He flung away from her, and resumed his walk about the room. He gazed distressfully into space, as if appealing to invisible arbiters.

"This is too childish—and too cruel," he complained. "I 'm not an idiot. I don't need an object-lesson. I am not utterly without imagination. I can see Sampaolo with my mind's eye. And seeing it, I decide in cold blood that not for forty million Sampaolos would I give up the woman I adore. There—I 've made the journey, and come back. Now I renew my suit. Will you have me?"

He stood over her again.

"There must be no more talk of having or not having between you and me—till you have kept your promise," said Susanna, coldly avoiding his gaze.

Anthony clenched his fists, ground his teeth.

"What folly—what obstinacy—what downright wanton capriciousness," in anger he muttered.

"And yet, two minutes ago, this man said he loved me," Susanna murmured, meaningly, to the ceiling.

"If I were n't unfortunate enough to love you, I should n't mind your—your perfectly barbarous unkindness."

He glared at her. But she met his glare with a smile that disarmed it.
And, in spite of himself, he smiled too.

"Will you start to-morrow?" she asked, softly, coaxingly.

"This is outrageous," he said. "How long do you expect me to stay?"

"Oh, for that," she considered, "I shall be very moderate. A week will do. A diligent sightseer should be able to see Sampaolo pretty thoroughly in a week."

"A week," he calculated, "and I suppose one must allow at least another week for getting there and back. So you exile me for a fortnight?"

His tone and his eyes pleaded with her.

"A fortnight is not much," said she, lightly.

"No," he gloomily acquiesced. "It is only fourteen lifetimes to a man who happens to be in love."

"Men are reputed to be stronger than women," she reproached him, with a look. "If a mere woman can stand a fortnight——!"

Anthony gasped—and sprang towards her.

"No, no," she cried, shrinking away.

"Do you happen to be in love?" he said, restraining himself.

She looked at him very kindly.

"I will tell you that, when you come back—if you come back," she promised.

"If I come back!" he derided. Then, with eagerness, "You will write to me? I may write to you?" he stipulated.

"Oh, no—by no means. There must be no sort of communication between us. You must give yourself every chance to forget me—and to think of your cousin."

"I won't go," said Anthony.

He planted himself in a chair, facing her, and assumed the air of a fixture.

But Susanna rose.

"Good-bye, then," she said, and held out her hand.

"What do you mean?" said he.

But he took her hand, and kept it.

"All is over between us—if you won't go."

But she left her hand in his.

"You will write to me?"

He caressed the warm soft fingers.

"No."

"But I may write to you?"

He kissed the fragrant fingers.

At last, slowly, gently, she drew her hand away.

"Oh, if it will give you any satisfaction to write to me, I suppose you may," she conceded. "But remember—you must n't expect your letters to be answered."

She went back to her place in the corner of the sofa.

He left his chair, and stood over her again.

"I love you," he said.

She smiled and played with the lace of her cushion.

"So you remarked before," she said.

"I love you," said he, with fervour.

"By the bye," she said, "I forgot to mention that you are to take Mr.
Willes with you."

"Oh—?" puzzled Anthony. "Willes? Why?"

"For several reasons," said Susanna. "But will one suffice?"

"What's the one?"

She looked up at him, and laughed.

"Because I wish it."

Anthony laughed too.

"You are conscious of your power," he said.

"Yes," she admitted. "So you will take Mr. Willes?"

"You have said you wished it."

And then, for a while, neither spoke, but I fancy their eyes carried on the conversation.