She was accustomed to this cloying music, this _Serenata_ of Toselli,--a passionate lament that always touches the soul of the tourist in the halls of the grand hotels.

She, who at other times had ridiculed this artificial and refined little music, now felt tears welling up in her eyes.
"Not to be able to love anybody!" she murmured.

"To wander alone through the world!...

And love is such a beautiful thing!" She guessed what Ferragut was going to say,--his protest of eternal passion, his offer to unite his life to hers forever, and she cut his words short with an energetic gesture.
"No, Ulysses, you do not know me; you do not know who I am....

Go far from me.