which produce an
unnatural condition of the nerves at more or less regular hours may be
classed together, and there is not much difference between the kind of
craving they produce in those who use them. Moreover it is often said
that it is harder for a woman to break a habit of that sort, than for a
man.

Cecilia was young, fairly strong and very elastic, but she suffered
intensely when night came and she had to face the struggle. Bodily pain
would have been a relief then, and she knew it, but there was none to
bear. The chair looked at her from its distant place against the wall,
and seemed to draw her to it, till she had it taken away, pretending
that it did not suit the room. But when it was gone, she knew perfectly
well that it really made no difference, and that she could dream in any
other chair as easily.

And then came a wild desire to see the man's face again, and to be sure
that it had not changed. She was certain that she only wished to see it;
she would have been overwhelmed with shame, all alone in her room, if
she had acknowledged that it was the kiss that she craved and the one
moment of indescribable intoxication that came with it.

Are there not hundreds of men who earn their living by risking their
lives every night in feats of danger, and who miss that recurring moment
when they cannot have it? They will never admit that what they crave is
really the chance of a painful death, yet it is perfectly true.

Cecilia could not have been induced to think that she desired no longer
the lovely vision of a perfect life; that she could have parted with
that easily enough, though with much calm regret; and that, instead, she
had a nervous, material, most earthly longing for the single moment in
that life which was the contrary of perfect, which she despised, or
tried to despise, and which she believed she feared.

She struggled hard, and succeeded, and at last she could go to bed
quietly, without even glancing at the place where the chair had stood,
or at the candles on the table.

Then, when it all seemed over, a terrible thing happened. She dreamed of
the real Lamberti in her natural sleep, in a dream about real life.

CHAPTER XV

Cecilia knelt in the church of Santa Croce, near one of the ancient
pillars. At a little distance behind her, Petersen sat in a chair
reading a queer little German book that told her the stories of the
principal Roman churches with the l