ssigned to the daughter of the
house, and recalls a time when servants did not know how to prepare the
beverage.

"Come and talk to me presently," she said. "I am sure you have more to
tell me about him."

"No," said Lamberti, not taking the trouble to lower his voice much,
"there is nothing more to tell. I do not think I have forgotten
anything."

He stirred his coffee slowly, but with evident reluctance to stay near
her. She would not have been a human woman if she had not been annoyed
by his cool manner, and a shade of displeasure passed over her face.

"I have something to say to you," she answered. "I thought you would
understand."

"That is different."

In his turn he showed a little annoyance. They went back together to the
Countess's side, carrying their cups. In due time the good lady went to
write letters, feeling that it was quite safe to leave her daughter with
Lamberti, who seemed to be as cold as ice, and not at all bent on making
himself agreeable. Besides, the Countess was tired of the situation, and
could hardly conceal the fact that she reproached Guido for not getting
well sooner, in order that she might speak to him herself.

There was silence for a time after she had gone into the next room,
while Cecilia and Lamberti sat side by side on the sofa she had left.
Neither seemed inclined to speak first, for both felt that some danger
was at hand, which could not be avoided, but which must be approached
with caution. She wished that he would say something, for she was not at
all sure what she meant to tell him; but he was silent, which was
natural enough, as she had asked for the interview.

She would have given anything to have seen him somewhere else, in new
surroundings, anywhere except in her own drawing-room, where every
familiar object oppressed her and reminded her of her mistakes and
illusions. She felt that she must say something, but the blood rose in
her brain and confused her. He saw her embarrassment, or guessed it.

"So far things have gone better than I expected," he said at last, "but
that only makes the end more doubtful."

She turned to him slowly and with an involuntary look of gratitude for
having broken the silence.

"I mean," he went on, "that since Guido is so ready to grasp at any
straw you throw him, it will be hard to make him understand you, when
things have gone a little further."

"Is that all you mean?" She asked the question almost sharply.

"Yes."

"You