Then, like a child, not trusting to her eyes alone, she looked at them
with her fingers; touched them delicately in turn, with a caress.
Immediately afterwards she locked them up; and turned to her disrobing.
She slept quietly, and went about her affairs of the morrow with a
calmness that surprised her.
At a later day, in a conversation which Morosine had with her, he
permitted himself a reference to the Museum. "You go no more? They've done
their work--the Three?"
She smiled upon him, looking up from a little blue-covered book which lay
half-cut upon her lap. It had arrived by the post that morning without
message, or even inscription. But it was dedicated, she observed, "To the
Fairest," and had smiled wisely to herself, observing it. A finger in the
book, she answered Morosine. "Yes, they've done their work. I'm much
happier now. I've thrown up my arms, you see. I'm drowning." She suddenly
blushed, to remember her dream; and he perceived it.
"Drowning?" he asked.
"Drifting with the tide," she explained. "And I like it."
It was on his tongue to refer to _Tristan_, but--such was her hardihood--
she saved him the trouble. "I was fearfully excited with the opera.
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