we will talk of this again ; I do not leave immediately—but I shall go. Oh! yes, it is necessary; I have taken my oath upon it. Do you know that for two days I have been studying Greek? 'Ζωήμον σὰς ἁγαπῶ.' It is a beautiful language, is it not?"
Madame de Piennes had read Lord Byron and remembered that Greek phrase, the refrain of one of his fugitive poems. The translation, as you know, is found in a foot-note; it is: "My life, I love you." It is a fashion of speech peculiar to that country. Madame de Piennes cursed her too good memory; she was careful not to ask the meaning of that Greek phrase, and only feared that her countenance might betray the fact that she had understood.
Max had wandered to the piano, and his fingers falling upon the keys as by accident, performed a few melancholy chords. Suddenly, he took his hat ; and turning to Madame de Piennes asked if she were going to Madame Darsenay's that evening.
"I think so," she replied, with some hesitation.
He pressed her hand and immediately took his departure, leaving her a prey to an agitation that she had never before experienced.
All of her ideas were so confused, and fol-
