ame to undress me. I told her gently to go to bed as I had to
write for three or four hours; but not caring that she should come on a
bootless errand I opened a box and gave her a watch. She took it
modestly, saying,--

"This is for my sister, I suppose?"

"No, dear Annette, it's for you."

She gave a skip of delight, and I could not prevent her kissing my hand.

I proceeded to write Rosalie a letter of four pages. I felt worried and
displeased with myself and everyone else. I tore up my letter without
reading it over, and making an effort to calm myself I wrote her another
letter more subdued than the first, in which I said nothing of Veronique,
but informed my fair recluse that I was going on the day following.

I did not go to bed till very late, feeling out of temper with the world.
I considered that I had failed in my duty to Veronique, whether she loved
me or not, for I loved her and I was a man of honour. I had a bad night,
and when I awoke it was noon, and on ringing Costa and Annette appeared.
The absence of Veronique shewed how I had offended her. When Costa had
left the room I asked Annette after her sister, and she said that she was
working. I wrote her a note, in which I begged her pardon, promising that
I would never offend her again, and begging her to forget everything and
to be just the same as before. I was taking my coffee when she came into
my room with an expression of mortification which grieved me excessively.

"Forget everything, I beg, and I will trouble you no more. Give me my
buckles, as I am going for a country walk, and I shall not be in till
suppertime. I shall doubtless get an excellent appetite, and as you have
nothing more to fear you need not trouble to send me Annette again."

I dressed myself in haste, and left the town by the first road that came
in my way, and I walked fast for two hours with the intention of tiring
myself, and of thus readjusting the balance between mind and body. I have
always found that severe exercise and fresh air are the best cure for any
mental perturbation.

I had walked for more than three leagues when hunger and weariness made
me stop at a village inn, where I had an omelette cooked. I ate it
hungrily with brown bread and wine, which seemed to me delicious though
it was rather sharp.

I felt too tired to walk back to Genoa, so I asked for a carriage; but
there was no such thing to be had. The inn-keeper provided me with a
sorry nag and a man to gu