that it was done and that she could never recall the
fatal words. After reading such a letter there could be nothing for
Guido to do but to accept the situation and tell his friends that she
had broken the engagement. As for the immediate effect it might have on
him, she did not even take his slight illness into consideration. The
fact that he could not come and see her might even make it easier for
him to bear the blow. Of course, if he came, she should be obliged to
receive him, but she hoped that he would not. It would hurt her to see
how much he was hurt, and she was suffering enough already. In time she
trusted that he and she might be good friends, as young girls have an
unreasonable inclination to hope in such cases.

When the Countess came back from her visit to the Princess Anatolie she
was a little flushed, and there was a hard look in her face which
Cecilia had never seen before, and which made her expect trouble. To her
surprise, her mother kissed her affectionately on both cheeks.

"That old woman is a harpy," she said, as she left the room.

CHAPTER XIX

Guido took Cecilia's letter with a smile of pleasure when his man
brought it to him, and, as he felt its thickness between his fingers,
the delightful anticipation of reading it alone was already a real
happiness. She was distressed and anxious for him, he was sure, and
perhaps in saying so she had found some expression less formal than
those she generally used when she talked with him and assured him that
she really liked him very much.

"You may go," he said to his servant. "I need nothing more, thank you."

He was in bed, propped up by three or four pillows, and his face was
unnaturally flushed and already looked thin. A new book of memoirs, half
cut, and with the paper-knife between the leaves, lay on the arras
counterpane, in the middle of which royal armorial bearings with crown
and sceptre were represented in the fat arms of smiling cherubs. The
head of the carved bed was towards the windows of the wide room, so that
the light fell from behind; for Guido was an indolent man, and often lay
reading for an hour before he got up. On the small table beside him
stood a heavy Venetian tumbler of the eighteenth century, ornamented
with gold designs. A cigarette-case lay beside it. The carpet of the
room had been taken up for the summer, and the floor was of dark red
tiles, waxed and immaculate. In a modest way, a