ng about Lamberti, and it was soothing to go back to Guido's
companionship and to all that her real affection for him meant to her.
It was like coming home after a dangerous journey. There he was, always
the same, his hands stretched out to welcome her back. She would have
just that sensation presently when he came to luncheon, and he would
have just that look. She and he were made to spend endless days
together, sometimes talking, sometimes thoughtful and silent, always
happy, and calm, and utterly peaceful.

After all, she thought, what more could a woman ask? With each other's
society and her fortune, they would have all the world held that was
pleasant and beautiful around them, and they would enjoy it together, as
long as it lasted, and it would never make the least difference to them
that they should grow old, and older, until the end came; and at
eighteen it was of no use to think of that.

Surely this was love, at its best, and of the kind that must last; and
if, after all, in order to get such happiness as that seemed, there was
no way except to marry, why then, she must do as others did and be Guido
d'Este's wife.

What could she know? That she loved him, in a way not at all like what
she had supposed to be the way of love, but sincerely and truly. What
should she do? She should marry him, since that was necessary. What
might she hope? She could hope for a lifetime of happiness. Should she
then have acted so as to deserve it? Yes. Why not? Might the reason for
her marriage be a rule for others? Yes, for others in exactly the same
case.

So she smilingly answered the mightiest questions of transcendental
philosophy as if they all referred to the pleasant world in which she
lived, instead of to the lofty regions of Pure Reason. In that, indeed,
she knew that she was playing with them, or applying them empirically,
if any one chose to define in those terms what she was doing. After all,
why should she not? Of the three questions, the first only was
"speculative," and the other two were "practical." The philosopher
himself said so.

Besides, it did not matter, for Guido d'Este was coming to luncheon, and
afterwards her mother would go and write notes, unless she dozed a
little in her boudoir, as she sometimes did while the two talked; and
then Cecilia would say something quite natural, but quite new, and she
would let her look linger in Guido's a little longer than ever before,
and then he would ask her to m