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to look at it. She no longer even answers my letters. I went down to Fontainebleau, but I never saw her, for Marie told me that Monsieur and Madame had gone for the day to Barbizon! Monsieur and Madame! Je vous demande! And I, poor fooi that I am, once in Berlin taunted her with being incapable of falling in love!"

"I recollect," said Weiss, nodding his head sagaciously, "and at the time I thought your remarks highly imprudent."

"Am I a magician, to have prophesied the onslaught of this all-conquering Englishman?"

Meanwhile the lovers themselves, incarcerated down at Fontainebleau, continued to think only of each other. It was as though they were shut up together in some little secret world into which none but themselves might enter. And in that world were not only passion and pleasure hitherto undreamed of, but other joys besides—tenderness, gaiety, peace, understanding, and all the rare sweetness of companionship. When they were not making love to each other they were able to talk, happily enough, of a hundred different things.

He told her of his home, an old gray house in Wiltshire, with a rose garden, an English park and a trout stream. He talked to her naïvely of his horses, of his spaniels, of his guns and of his new phaeton. He told her, chuckling, how much he enjoyed the early summer mornings at Chevis.

"I love swimming, Lina, and I wake up early when I'm living down there. So I creep out, before any one is up, to bathe in the lake, and you have no idea how beautiful the park looks at dawn. Everything is fresh, and smells sweet, and the long grass is thick with dew, and quite suddenly you come upon little new mushrooms, like white buttons, buried in the turf. They smell good, too. And there are pike in the lake, with long teeth, and water-lilies,