racinesca's son. The diplomatist only did what
everyone else who came near Corona attempted to do at that time, in
endeavouring to ascertain whether she herself entertained any feeling for
the man whom the gossips had set down as her most devoted admirer.

Poor Duchessa! It was no wonder that she had started at the idea that
Giovanni was in trouble. He had played a great part in her life that day,
and she could not forget him. She had hardly as yet had time to think
of what she felt, for it was only by a supreme effort that she had been
able to bear the great strain upon her strength. If she had not loved
him, it would have been different; and in the strange medley of emotions
through which she was passing, she wished that she might never have
loved--that, loving, she might be allowed wholly to forget her love, and
to return by some sudden miracle to that cold dreamy state of
indifference to all other men, and of unfailing thoughtfulness for her
husband, from which she had been so cruelly awakened. She would have
given anything to have not loved, now that the great struggle was over;
but until the supreme moment had come, she had not been willing to put
the dangerous thought from her, saving in those hours of prayer and
solitary suffering, when the whole truth rose up clearly before her in
its undisguised nakedness. So soon as she had gone into the world, she
had recklessly longed for Giovanni Saracinesca's presence.

But now it was all changed. She had not deceived herself when she had
told him that she would rather not see him any more. It was true; not
only did she wish not to see him, but she earnestly desired that the love
of him might pass from her heart. With a sudden longing, her thoughts
went back to the old convent-life of her girlhood, with its regular
occupations, its constant religious exercises, its narrowness of view,
and its unchanging simplicity. What mattered narrowness, when all beyond
that close limitation was filled with evil? Was it not better that the
lips should be busy with singing litanies than that the heart should be
tormented by temptation? Were not those simple tasks, that had seemed so
all-important then, more sweet in the performance than the manifold
duties of this complicated social existence, this vast web and woof of
life's loom, this great machinery that worked and groaned and rolled
endlessly upon its wheels without producing any more result than the
ceaseless turning of a prison tr