randts, and his pictures, with an old book on his knee,
dreaming about his two conflicting individualities. But somehow dreaming
had lost its charm of late. He thought only of one question, and asked
only one of the future. Was Cecilia Palladio's friendship about to turn
into anything that could be called love, or not? His intention warned
him that if the change had come she herself was not conscious of it. He
was authorised to ask her, now that the Countess had spoken--formally
authorised, but he was quite sure that if he had believed that she
already loved him, he would not have waited for any such permission. His
father's blood resented the restraint of all ordinary conventions, and
in the most profound inaction he had always morally and inwardly
reserved the right to do what he pleased, if he should ever care to do
anything at all.

He was just going to dress for dinner that evening when Lamberti came
in, a little more sunburned than usual, but thinner, and very restless
in his manner. Guido explained that he was going to dine with the
Countess Fortiguerra. He offered to telephone for permission to bring
Lamberti with him.

"Do you know them well enough for that already?" Lamberti asked.

"Yes. I have seen them a great deal since you left. Shall I ask?"

"No, thank you. I shall dine at home with my people."

"Shall you go to the garden party to-morrow?"

"No."

Guido looked at him curiously, and he immediately turned away, unlike
himself.

"Have you had any more strange dreams since I saw you?" Guido asked.

"Yes."

Lamberti did not turn round again, but looked attentively at an etching
on the table, so that Guido could not see his face. His monosyllabic
answers were nervous and sharp. It was clear that he was under some kind
of strain that was becoming intolerable, but of which he did not care to
speak.

"How is it going?" he asked suddenly.

"I think everything is going well," answered Guido, who knew what he
meant, though neither of them had spoken to the other of Cecilia, except
in the most casual way, since they had both met her.

"So you are going to marry an heiress after all," said Lamberti, with
something like a laugh.

"I love her," Guido replied. "I cannot help the fact that she is rich."

"It does no harm."

"Perhaps not, but I wish she had no more than I. If she had nothing at
all, I should be just as anxious to marry her."

"You do not suppose that I doubt that, do you?" Lamberti