you have repeated to her what I told you the other night."

"What you told me?"
"About Jeffrey Aspern--that I am looking for materials."

"If I had told her do you think she would have sent for you?"
"That's exactly what I want to know. If she wants to keep

him to herself she might have sent for me to tell me so."
"She won't speak of him," said Miss Tita. Then as she opened the door

she added in a lower tone, "I have told her nothing."
The old woman was sitting in the same place in which I had seen her last,

in the same position, with the same mystifying bandage over her eyes.
her welcome was to turn her almost invisible face to me and show me

that while she sat silent she saw me clearly. I made no motion to shake
hands with her; I felt too well on this occasion that that was out

of place forever. It had been sufficiently enjoined upon me that she
was too sacred for that sort of reciprocity--too venerable to touch.

There was something so grim in her aspect (it was partly the accident
of her green shade), as I stood there to be measured, that I ceased

on the spot to feel any doubt as to her knowing my secret, though I did
not in the least suspect that Miss Tita had not just spoken the truth.

She had not betrayed me, but the old woman's brooding instinct had
served her; she had turned me over and over in the long, still hours,

and she had guessed. The worst of it was that she looked terribly
like an old woman who at a pinch would burn her papers. Miss Tita pushed

a chair forward, saying to me, "This will be a good place for you to sit."
As I took possession of it I asked after Miss Bordereau's health;

expressed the hope that in spite of the very hot weather it was satisfactory.
She replied that it was good enough--good enough; that it was a great

thing to be alive.
"Oh, as to that, it depends upon what you compare it with!"

I exclaimed, laughing.
"I don't compare--I don't compare. If I did that I should have given

everything up long ago."
I liked to think that this was a subtle allusion to the rapture

she had known in the society of Jeffrey Aspern--though it
was true that such an allusion would have accorded ill with

the wish I imputed to her to keep him buried in her soul.
What it accorded with was my constantconviction that no human

being had ever had a more delightful social gift than his,
and what it seemed to convey was that nothing in the world

was worth speaking of if one pretended to speak of that.
But one did not! Miss Tita sat down beside her aunt,

looking as if she had reason to believe some very remarkable
conversation would come off between us.

"It's about the beautiful flowers," said the old lady;
"you sent us so many--I ought to have thanked you for them before.

But I don't write letters and I receive only at long intervals."
She had not thanked me while the flowers continued to come, but she

departed from her custom so far as to send for me as soon as she
began to fear that they would not come any more. I noted this;

I remembered what an acquisitive propensity she had shown when it
was a question of extracting gold from me, and I privately rejoiced

at the happy thought I had had in suspending my tribute. She had
missed it and she was willing to make a concession to bring it back.

At the first sign of this concession I could only go to meet her.
"I am afraid you have not had many, of late, but they shall begin

again immediately--tomorrow, tonight."
"Oh, do send us some tonight!" Miss Tita cried, as if it

were an immense circumstance.
"What else should you do with them? It isn't a manly taste to make a bower

of your room," the old woman remarked.
"I don't make a bower of my room, but I am exceedingly fond of growing

flowers, of watching their ways. There is nothing unmanly in that:
it has been the amusement of philosophers, of statesmen in retirement;

even I think of great captains."
"I suppose you know you can sell them--those you don't use,"

Miss Bordereau went on. "I daresay they wouldn't give you
much for them; still, you could make a bargain."

"Oh, I have never made a bargain, as you ought to know.
My gardener disposes of them and I ask no questions."

"I would ask a few, I can promise you!" said Miss Bordereau;
and it was the first time I had heard her laugh.

I could not get used to the idea that this vision of pecuniary
profit was what drew out the divine Juliana most.

"Come into the garden yourself and pick them; come as often
as you like; come every day. They are all for you,"

I pursued, addressing Miss Tita and carrying off this
veracious statement by treating it as an innocent joke.

"I can't imagine why she doesn't come down," I added,
for Miss Bordereau's benefit.

"You must make her come; you must come up and fetch her,"
said the old woman, to my stupefaction. "That odd thing you

have made in the corner would be a capital place for her to sit."
The allusion to my arbor was irreverent; it confirmed the impression I

had already received that there was a flicker of impertinence in Miss
Bordereau's talk, a strange mocking lambency which must have been a part

of her adventurous youth and which had outlived passions and faculties.
Nonetheless I asked, "Wouldn't it be possible for you to come down

there yourself? Wouldn't it do you good to sit there in the shade,
in the sweet air?"

"Oh, sir, when I move out of this it won't be to sit in the air,
and I'm afraid that any that may be stirring around me won't

be particularly sweet! It will be a very dark shade indeed.
But that won't be just yet," Miss Bordereau continued cannily,

as if to correct any hopes that this courageousallusion to
the last receptacle of her mortality might lead me to entertain.

"I have sat here many a day and I have had enough of arbors in my time.
But I'm not afraid to wait till I'm called."

Miss Tita had expected some interesting talk, but perhaps she
found it less genial on her aunt's side (considering that I

had been sent for with a civil intention) than she had hoped.
As if to give the conversation a turn that would put

our companion in a light more favorable she said to me,
"Didn't I tell you the other night that she had sent me out?

You see that I can do what I like!"
"Do you pity her--do you teach her to pity herself?"

Miss Bordereau demanded before I had time to answer this appeal.
"She has a much easier life than I had when I was her age."

"You must remember that it has been quite open to me to think
you rather inhuman."

"Inhuman? That's what the poets used to call the women a hundred years ago.
Don't try that; you won't do as well as they!" Juliana declared.

"There is no more poetry in the world--that I know of at least.
But I won't bandy words with you," she pursued, and I well remember

the old-fashioned, artificial sound she gave to the speech.
"You have made me talk, talk! It isn't good for me at all."

I got up at this and told her I would take no more of her time; but she
detained me to ask, "Do you remember, the day I saw you about the rooms,

that you offered us the use of your gondola?" And when I assented,
promptly, struck again with her disposition to make a "good thing"

of being there and wondering what she now had in her eye, she broke out,
"Why don't you take that girl out in it and show her the place?"

"Oh, dear Aunt, what do you want to do with me?" cried the "girl"
with a piteous quaver. "I know all about the place!"

"Well then, go with him as a cicerone!" said Miss Bordereau
with an effort of something like cruelty in her implacable

power of retort--an incongruous suggestion that she was
a sarcastic, profane, cynical old woman. "Haven't we heard