hed her hand she would be his slave, powerless
to resist him.

Sometimes she could not help looking at him, but then he never turned
his eyes towards her, and she was thankful when she could turn hers
away. When he was not present, she hoped that she might never see his
face again, except in dreams, for there he was not the same. There, but
for that one passionate kiss that told all, he was tender, and gentle,
and true, and he listened to her, and in the end he lived as she wished
him to live. But he had come back to life with the same face, another
man--one whom she feared as she feared nothing in the world, and few
things beyond it, for he was born her master, and was strong, and had
ruthless eyes. Even Guido could not save her from him, she was sure.

Yet in spite of all this, she could meet him with outward indifference
in the world, before other people. She felt that there was no danger so
long as she was not alone with him, because he would not dare to use his
power, and the world protected her by its cheerful, careless presence.
She did not hate him, she only feared him, with every part of her, body
and soul.

She was sure that he knew it, but she was not grateful to him for
avoiding her. She could not be grateful to any one of whom she was in
terror. It was merely his will to avoid her, or perhaps, as Guido seemed
to think, he did not like her; or possibly it was for Guido's sake,
because Guido trusted him, and he was a man of honour.

He was that beyond doubt, for every one said so, and she knew that he
was brave; but though he might possess every quality and virtue under
the sun, she could never be less afraid of him. Her fear had nothing to
do with his character; it was bodily and spiritual, not reasonable. She
had found out that he was perfectly truthful, for nothing he said
escaped her, and Guido told her that he was kind, but that was hard to
believe of any one with those eyes. Yet the man in the dream was
gentleness itself, and his eyes never glittered when they looked at her.

To think that she could ever love Lamberti was utterly absurd. When she
was married to Guido she would tell him that she feared his friend. Now,
it was impossible. He would smile quietly and tell her there was nothing
to be afraid of; he would smile, too, if she told him that she had a
dual existence, and dreamed herself into the other every day.

And now she was smiling, too, as she thought of him, for she had thought
too lo