the money. How old and
wise I became during that ride home from the magistrate's! The prince
called, but I was not at home to him. He wrote many times, but I replied
to none of his letters. He struck but one string; I was foolish to let a
little peccadillo of bachelorhood stand in the way; all men were the
same; the position I took was absurd. I never answered. I returned to
Venice. I have seen him but twice since; once at Monte Carlo and that
night at the Villa Ariadne. How he begged, schemed, plotted, and
manoeuvered to regain my favor! But I knew now. I vowed he should never
have a penny; it should all go to the crown.

When at length he found that I was really serious, he became base in his
tactics. _He_ was the one who was wronged. He gave life to such rumors
among those I knew that soon I found doors closed to me which had always
been open. No Italian woman could see the matter from my point of view.
I was an American for all that my mother was a Venetian, therefore I was
wrong.

So great was this man's vanity that he truly believed that all he had to
do was to meet me face to face to overcome my objections! I have already
told you that my impulses are as mysterious to me as to others. Why I
went to the Villa Ariadne is not to be explained. I do not know.... A
comic opera singer! But I shall always love those light-hearted
companions, who were cheerful under misfortune, who accepted each new
calamity as a jest by the Great Dramatist. Perhaps the truth is, this
last calamity was brought about by my desire to aid them without letting
them know who I was. I have committed many foolish acts, but innocent
and hurtless. To you I have been perfectly frank. From the first I
warned you; and many times I have given you hurts which recoiled upon my
own head. But all for your good. I wanted you to be clear of the tangle.
There! That is all. There is no more mystery concerning Sonia Hilda
Grosvenor.

* * * * *

And so the letter ended. There was not a word regarding any future
meeting; there was nothing to read between the lines. A great loneliness
surged over Hillard. Was this, then, really the end? No! He struck the
letter sharply on his palm. No, this should not be the end. He would
wait here in Florence till the day of doom. He would waste no time in
seeking her, for he knew that if he sought he would not find.

Day after day dragged through the hours, and Florence grew thinned and
torr