She was silent.
“Speak on, speak,” whispered Andrea, taking her hand in his; “your voice is music, and you say strange, harmonious things.”
She left her gloved hand in his, but did not add another word, keeping her eyes fixed on the hole in the roof which let in the light. His fingers strayed idly to her wrist, and thence to where the glove joined the sleeve of her dress.
“Have you a pencil?” she said.
Andrea took a gold pencil-case off his watch-chain and gave it to her. She sought the darkest corner of the portico, and thereon traced the outline of a heart. Inside she wrote:
A VENERE DEA
LUCIA,
and gave Andrea back the pencil. He stooped to read her inscription, and thus wrote his own name:
A VENERE DEA
LUCIA
ANDREA.
“Fate, fate,” she cried, escaping from Andrea’s outstretched
