ing to cut
off one of his legs for a large sum of money. That was before the days
of chloroform. When the Englishman had recovered, he went home with his
wooden leg, and asked the lady if she would marry him, then. She did,
and they were happy."

"Is that true?" Cecilia asked.

"I have always believed it. That was the real thing."

"Yes. That was the real thing."

Cecilia's voice trembled a very little, and her eyes glistened.

"The truth is," said Guido, "that it is easier to have one's leg cut off
than to make a fortune."

He was amused at his thought, but Cecilia was wondering what she would
be willing to suffer, and able to bear, if any suffering could buy her
freedom. At the same time, she knew that she would do a great deal to
help him if he were in need or distress. She wondered, too, whether
there could be any fixed relation between a sacrifice made for love and
one made for friendship's sake.

"There must never be any question of money between us," she said, after
a pause. "What is mine must be ours, and what is ours must be as much
yours as mine."

"No," Guido answered gently. "That is not possible. I have quite enough
for anything I shall ever need, but you must live in the way you like,
and where you like, with your own fortune."

"And you will be a sort of perpetual guest in my house!"

For the first time there was a little bitterness in her laugh, and he
looked at her quickly, for after the way she had spoken he had not
thought that what he had said could have offended her. Of the two, he
fancied that his own position was the harder to accept, the position of
the "perpetual guest" in his wife's palace, just able to pay for his
gloves, his cigarettes, and his small luxuries. He did not quite
understand why she was hurt, as she seemed to be.

On her part she felt as if she had done all she could, and was angry
with herself, and not with him, because all her fortune was not worth a
tenth of what he was giving her, nor a hundredth part. For an instant
she was on the point of speaking out frankly, to tell him that she had
made a great mistake. Then she thought of what he would suffer, and once
more she resolved to think it all over before finally deciding.

So nothing was decided. For when she was alone, all the old reasons came
and arrayed themselves before her, with their hopeless little faces,
like poor children standing in a row to be inspected, and trying to look
their best though their clot