"He had perhaps grown weary of her," said Gervase, speaking with
an effort, and still studying the exquisite loveliness of the
bewitching face that was so close to his own, like a man in a
dream.

At this she laughed, and laid her two hands on his shoulders with
a close and clinging clasp which thrilled him strangely.

"Ah, there is the difficulty!" she said.

"What cure shall ever be found for love-weariness? Men are all
like children--they tire of their toys; hence the frequent trouble
and discomfort of marriage. They grow weary of the same face, the
same caressing arms, the same faithful heart! You, for instance,
would grow weary of me!"

"I think not," answered Gervase. And now the vague sense of
uncertainty and pain which had distressed him passed away, leaving
him fully self-possessed once more. "I think you are one of those
exceptional women whom a man never grows weary of: like a
Cleopatra, or any other old-world enchantress, you fascinate with
a look, you fasten with a touch, and you have a singular freshness
and wild attraction about you which makes you unlike any other of
your sex. I know well enough that I shall never get the memory of
you out of my brain; your face will haunt me till I die!"

"And after death?" she queried, half-closing her eyes, and
regarding him languorously through her silky black lashes.

"Ah, ma belle, after that there is nothing to be done even in the