"I think you have said yourself, Madame, the cause why everything seems more or less wearisome to you—you have 'nothing to be unhappy about'; that is—you have no one for whom you care."
He thought that her proud delicate face coloured a little; or it might be the warmth from the fire of oak-logs and pine-cones.
"No; I don't care about people," she answered him indifferently. "When you have seen a person a few times—it is enough. It is like a book you have read through; the interest is gone; you know the mot d'énigme."
"You speak of society; I spoke of affections."
The Lady Hilda laughed a little.
"I can't follow you. I do not feel them. I like Clairvaux, my brother, certainly, but we go years without seeing each other quite contentedly."
"I spoke of affections, other affections," replied Della Rocca, with a little impatience. "There is nothing else that gives warmth or colour to life. Without them there is no glow
