ido's hand. It was like a
reprieve after the long tension, for something must have happened to
prevent him from coming, something unexpected, but welcome, though she
would not own it.

In answer to her question, the man said that the messenger had gone
away, and he left the room. She tore the envelope with trembling
fingers.

Guido was ill. That was the substance of the note. He had felt ill when
he awoke early in the morning, but had thought it nothing serious,
though he was very uncomfortable. Unknown to him, his man had sent for a
doctor, who had come half an hour ago, after Cecilia's message had been
received and answered. The doctor had found him with high fever, and
thought it was a sharp attack of influenza; at all events he had ordered
Guido to stay in bed, and gave him little hope of going out for several
days.

The note dropped on Cecilia's knees before she had read the words of
loving regret with which it closed, and she found herself wondering
whether Lamberti would have been hindered from coming by a mere touch of
fever, under the same circumstances. But she would not allow herself to
dwell on that long, for it gave her pleasure to think of Lamberti, and
all such pleasure she intended to deny herself. It was quite bad enough
to know that she loved him with all her heart. She went back to her own
room.

There was nothing to be done but to write to Guido at once, for she
would not allow the day to pass without telling him what she meant to
do. She sat down and wrote as well as she could, weighing each sentence,
not out of caution, but in fear lest she should not make it clear that
she was altogether to blame for the mistake she had made, and meant to
bear all the consequences in the eyes of the world. She was truly and
sincerely penitent, and asked his forgiveness with touching humility.
She did not mention Lamberti, but she confessed frankly that since she
had been in Rome she had begun to love another man, as she ought to have
loved Guido, a man whom she rarely saw, and who had never shown the
least inclination to make love to her.

That was the substance of what she wrote. She read the words over, to be
sure that they said what she meant, and she told Petersen to send a man
at once with the letter. There was no answer, he was not to wait. She
gave the order rather hurriedly, for she wished her decision to become
irrevocable as soon as possible. It was a physical relief, but not a
mental one, to feel