er could ever say could shake his belief. It was plainly his duty to
tell them so, and it would be wisest to write to them, for he felt that
he might lose his temper if he tried to say what he meant, instead of
writing it.

He wrote to Lamberti first, because it was easier, though it was quite
the hardest thing he had ever done. He began by proving to himself, and
therefore to his friend, that he was writing after mature reflection and
without the least hastiness, or temper, or unwillingness to be
convinced, if Lamberti had anything to say in self-defence. He expressed
no suspicion as to the probable nature of the secret that was withheld
from him; he even wrote that he no longer wished to know what it was.
His argument was that by refusing to reveal it, Lamberti had convicted
himself of some unknown deed which he was ashamed to acknowledge, and
Guido did not hesitate to add that such unjustifiable reticence might
easily be construed in such a way as to cast a slur upon the character
of an innocent young girl.

Having got so far, Guido immediately tore the whole letter to shreds and
rose from his writing table, convinced that it was impossible to write
what he meant without saying things which he did not mean. After all, he
could simply avoid his old friend in future. The idea of quarrelling
with him aggressively had never entered his mind, and it was therefore
of no use to write anything at all. Lamberti must have guessed already
that all friendship was at an end, and it would consequently be quite
useless to tell him so.

He must write to Cecilia, however. He could not allow her to think,
because he had apologised for rudely doubting her word, that he
therefore believed what she had told him. He would write.

Here he was confronted by much greater difficulties than he had found in
composing his unsuccessful letter to Lamberti. In the first place, he
was in love with her, and it seemed to him that he should love her just
as much, whatever she did. He wondered what it was that he felt, for at
first he hardly thought it was jealousy, and it was assuredly not a mere
passing fit of ill-tempered resentment.

It must be jealousy, after all. He fancied that she had known Lamberti
before, and that she had been girlishly in love with him, and that when
she had met him again she had been startled and annoyed. It was not so
hard to imagine that this might be possible, though he could not see why
they should both make such a