"
Noemi d'Arxel placed her hands on her friend's shoulders, and gazed
steadily into her eyes. The blue questioning eyes were grave and sad;
the brown eyes, thus scrutinised, bore the gaze with firmness, flashing
in turn defiance, embarrassment, and mirth.
"Well," said the girl, "I enjoy seeing Memling with Signor Carlino,
playing classical music with him, discussing a Kempis with him,
although this affection he has recently developed for a Kempis seems a
profanation, when you consider that he believes in nothing. _Je suis
catholique autant qu'on peut l'etre lorsqu'on ne l'est pas_, but when I
hear an unbeliever like your brother read a Kempis so feelingly, I very
nearly lose my faith in Christianity as well. I like him for one other
reason, dear, because he is your brother. But that is all! Oh! Jeanne
Dessalle says such strange things sometimes--such strange things! I do
not understand--I really do not understand. But _warte nur, du Raethsel_,
as my governess used to say."
"What am I to wait for?"
Noemi threw her arm round her friend's neck, "I will drag your soul with
so fine a net that it will bring beautiful great pearls to the surface,
perhaps some sea-weed as well, and a little mud from the bottom, or even
a very tiny _pioeuvre_.
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