“I do not understand. I am Mrs Clifford’s guest. Madge Craven is my name,” said Madge.
The man sprang back and raised his hands in surprise.
“Great heavens! She is flesh and blood--at last--at last!” he cried.
He put out his hand slowly--doubtfully. Madge put out hers to it. A cry of delight came from him as he felt her warm hand, and he made it still warmer by his kisses. She could not stop him. She made no attempt to do so.
“Tell me that I was not mad--that I am not mad now,” he said in a loving whisper.
“Oh no--only--is it not strange?--For five years I have this dream--this very dream--and yet I never was in this house until last January,” said Madge.
“You have been with me every Christmas Eve for five years, and you will remain here for ever,” said he. “Do not tell me that we have not met before--do not tell me that you have not loved me as I have loved you all these years. What did that dream of yours mean?”
“I think I know now--now,” whispered the girl.
Mrs Tremaine considers, herself the only survivor of the people who professed to exorcise the ghosts in whom our grandfathers were foolish enough to believe.
Ah, my friend,” said the Marchesa, “you Englishmen are like to our mountain which we see smoking over there.” She threw herself into the attitude of the ‘_prima donna assoluta_ in an impassioned moment preceding the singing of the romanza, as she pointed across the blue Bay of Naples to where Vesuvius was sending forth a delicate hazy fume.
“I don’t know anything about Englishmen,” said Sir Percival morosely; “but I know that when you are near me my heart is a volcano--my soul----”
The lady’s laugh interrupted him--one cannot make use of similes with a poetical flavour about them when a violet-eyed lady is leaning back her head in laughter, even though the action displays a beautiful throat and the curves of a superb neck. The Marchesa del Grippo displayed a marvellous throat and neck, and was fully aware of this fact. Her laugh rang out like a soprano dwelling with delight on a high note and producing it _tremolo_.
“Ah,” she cried, “you are at pains to prove to me that I am right in the way I judge you Englishmen: to-day you are volcanic, to-morrow we find not the blaze and the thunder but only--_ecco!_ a puff of smoke.”
