" he said, with real anxiety.

"We will not go to the villa again," she answered. "Good night."

It was late before she really went to bed, for when she was at last rid
of the conscientious Petersen, she sat long in her chair at the writing
table with a blank sheet of letter paper before her and a pen in her
hand. She dipped it into the ink often, and her fingers moved as if she
were going to write, but the point never touched the paper. At last the
pen lay on the table, and she was resting her chin upon her folded
hands, her eyes half closed, her breath drawn in short sighs that came
and went between her parted lips. Then, though she was all alone, the
blood rose suddenly in her face and she sprang to her feet, angry with
herself and frowning, and ashamed of her thoughts.

She felt hot, and then cold, and then almost sick with disgust. The
vision that had delighted her was far away now; she had forced herself
not to see it, but the man in it had come back to her in dreams; she had
driven him out of them, and for a time she had found peace, but now he
came to her in her waking thoughts and she longed to see his living face
and to hear his real voice. With utter self-contempt and scorn of her
own heart, she guessed that this was love, or love's beginning, and that
nothing could save her now.

Her first impulse was to write to him, to beg him to go away at any
price, never to see her again as long as she lived. As that was out of
the question, she next thought of writing to Guido, to tell him that she
could not marry him, and that she had made up her mind to retire from
the world and spend her life in a convent. But that was impossible, too.

There was no time to be lost. Either she must make one supreme effort to
drive Lamberti from her thoughts and to get back to the state in which
she had felt that she could marry Guido and be a good wife to him, or
else she must tell him frankly that the engagement must end. He would
ask why, and she would refuse to tell him, and after that she did not
dare to think of what would happen. It might ruin his life, for she knew
that he loved her very much. She was honestly and truly much more
concerned for him than for herself. It did not matter what became of
her, if only she could speak the truth to him without bringing harm to
him in the future. The world might say what it pleased.

It was right to break off her engagement, beyond question, and she had
done very wrong in ever agre