heard the mellow croon of the 'cello and the silver plaints of violins,
the chiming harp, and the triangle bells, all woven into a minor strain of
dance-music that beat gently upon their ears with such suggestion of the
past, that, as by some witchcraft of hearing, they listened to music made
for lovers dancing, and lovers listening, a hundred years ago.

"I care for only one thing in this world," he said, tremulously. "Have I
lost it? I didn't mean to ask you, that last night, although you answered.
Have I no chance? Is it still the same? Do I come too late?"

The butterfly fluttered in his hand and then away.

She drew back and looked at him a moment.

"There is one thing you must always understand," she said gently, "and
that is that a woman can be grateful. I give you all the gratitude there
is in me, and I think I have a great deal; it is all yours. Will you
always remember that?"

"Gratitude? What can there--"

"You do not understand now, but some day you will. I ask you to remember
that my every act and thought which bore reference to you--and there have
been many--came from the purest gratitude. Although you do not see it now,
will you promise to believe it?"

"Yes," he said simply.

"For the rest--" She paused. "For the rest--I do not love you."