fully on my knees, I
breathed freely once more, and said to myself that another quarter of
an hour of that detestable presence would have driven me mad.

I began to think about Rosetta Rosa. As a solace after the
exasperating companionship of that silent person in the other
compartment, I invited from the back of my mind certain thoughts about
Rosetta Rosa which had been modestly waiting for me there for some
little time, and I looked at them fairly, and turned them over, and
viewed them from every side, and derived from them a rather thrilling
joy. The fact is, I was beginning to be in love with Rosa. Nay, I was
actually in love with her. Ever since our first meeting my meditations
had been more or less busy with her image. For a long period, largely
owing to my preoccupation with Alresca, I had dreamed of her but
vaguely. And now, during our interviews at her hotel and in the church
of St. Gilles, she had, in the most innocent way in the world, forged
fetters on me which I had no desire to shake off.

It was a presumption on my part. I acknowledged frankly that it was a
presumption. I was a young doctor, with nothing to distinguish me from
the ruck of young doctors. And she was--well, she was one of those
rare and radiant beings to whom even monarchs bow, and the whole earth
offers the incense of its homage.

Which did not in the least alter the fact that I was in love with her.
And, after all, she was just a woman; more, she was a young woman. And
she had consulted me! She had allowed me to be of use to her! And,
months ago in London, had she not permitted me to talk to her with an
extraordinary freedom? Lovely, incomparable, exquisite as she was, she
was nevertheless a girl, and I was sure that she had a girl's heart.

However, it was a presumption.

I remembered her legendary engagement to Lord Clarenceux, an
engagement which had interested all Europe. I often thought of that
matter. Had she loved him--really loved him? Or had his love for her
merely flattered her into thinking that she loved him? Would she not
be liable to institute comparisons between myself and that renowned,
wealthy, and gifted nobleman?

Well, I did not care if she did. Such is the egoism of untried love
that I did not care if she did! And I lapsed into a reverie--a reverie
in which everything went smoothly, everything was for the best in the
best of all possible worlds, and only love and love's requital
existed....

Then, in the frac