Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. " "You delight me with the intelligence," said the stranger, entirely recovering his cheerfulness of look. It was not the arrival of the guests, but merely the maid moving about in the hall. ‘But what will happen to Lucia? Are we to kill her?’ ‘Of course not. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. What she had termed illuminative now appeared to be only another phase of the mystery which enveloped the child.
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