her
mother's voice just as she reached the threshold.

"We will announce it this evening," the Countess said to Guido.

Cecilia sped through the long suite of rooms that led to her own. She
met no one, not even Petersen, for the servants were all at dinner. She
locked the door, stood still a moment, and then went to the tall glass
between the windows, and looked at herself as if trying to read the
truth in the reflection of her eyes. It seemed to her that her beauty
was suddenly gone from her, and that she was utterly changed. She saw a
pale, drawn face, eyes that looked weak and frightened, lips that
trembled, a figure that had lost all its elasticity and half its grace.

She did not throw herself upon her bed and burst into tears. Old
Fortiguerra had taught her that it was not really more natural for a
woman to cry than it is for a man; and she had overcome even the very
slight tendency she had ever had towards such outward weakness. But like
other people who train themselves to keep down emotion, she suffered
much more than if she had given way to what she felt. She turned from
the reflection of herself with a sort of dumb horror, and sat down in
the place where she had come to her great decision less than two hours
ago.

The room looked very differently now; the air was not the same, the June
sunshine was still beating on the blinds, but it was cruel now, and
pitiless, as all light is that shines on grief.

She tried to collect her thoughts, and asked herself whether it was a
crime that she had committed against her will, and many other such
questions that had no answer. Little by little reason began to assert
itself again, as emotion subsided.

CHAPTER XIV

The news of Cecilia Palladio's engagement to Guido d'Este surprised no
one, and was generally received with that satisfaction which society
feels when those things happen which are appropriate in themselves and
have been long expected. A few mothers of marriageable sons were
disappointed, but no mothers of marriageable daughters, because Guido
had no fortune and was so much liked as to have been looked upon rather
as a danger than a prize.

Though it was late in the season, and she was about to leave Rome, the
Princess Anatolie gave a dinner party in honour of the betrothed pair,
and by way of producing an impression on Cecilia and her mother, invited
all the most imposing people who happened to be in Rome at that