er her letter in any way he could. In the
afternoon her mother had exhausted every argument in trying to make her
revoke her decision. She did not love Guido; that was her only reply;
but she felt that it ought to be sufficient, and she bowed her head
meekly when the Countess grew angry and told her that she should have
found that out long ago. Yes, she answered, it was all her fault, she
ought to have known, she would bear all the blame, she would tell her
friends that she had broken off the engagement, she would do everything
that could be required of her. But she would not marry Guido d'Este.

The Countess could say nothing more. On her side she was reticent for
once in her life, and told nothing of her own interview with Princess
Anatolie. Whether something had been said which the mother thought unfit
for her daughter's ears, or whether the Princess's words had been of a
nature to hurt Cecilia's pride, the young girl could not guess; and
though her maidenly instinct told her to accept her mother's silence
without question, if it proceeded from the first cause, she could not
help fearing that the Countess had done or said something hopelessly
tactless which might produce disagreeable consequences, or might even do
some harm to Guido.

Her heart was beating so fast when Lamberti entered the drawing-room
that she wondered how she should find breath to speak to him, and she
did not raise her eyes again after she had seen his face at the door,
till he was close to her, and had bowed without holding out his hand.

"I hope you got my note," he said to her mother. "D'Este is ill, and has
given me a verbal message for your daughter."

"Yes," said the Countess. "I will go into the next room and write my
letters."

She was gone and the two stood opposite each other in momentary silence.
Lamberti's voice had been formal, and his face was almost
expressionless.

"Where will you sit?" he asked. "It will take some time to tell you all
that he wishes me to say."

Cecilia led the way to the little sofa in the corner farthest from the
boudoir. It was there that Guido had asked her to be his wife, and it
was there that she had waited for him a few hours ago to tell him that
she could not marry him. She took her accustomed place, but Lamberti
drew forward a light chair and sat down facing her. He felt that he got
an advantage by the position, and that to a small extent it placed him
outside of her personal atmosphere. At such a