dozen men I like
might be called friends of mine, I suppose, but you know very well that
you are the only intimate friend I have."

"Yes, I know."

"Well? I can hardly fancy that you mean yourself, can I?"

Lamberti did not move, but as Guido looked at him for an answer, he saw
that he could not speak just then, and that he was clenching his teeth.
Guido stared at him a moment and then started.

"Lamberti!" he cried sharply.

Lamberti slowly turned his head and gazed into Guido's eyes without
speaking. Then they both looked out at the distant hills in silence for
a long time.

"The Contessina was very loyal to you, Guido," Lamberti said at last, in
a low tone. "She could not tell you that it was I, and I did not know
it."

Again there was a silence for a time.

"When did you know it?" Guido asked slowly.

"After she had been to see you. It was my fault, then."

"What was your fault?"

"When we went downstairs, I thought I should never see her again, and I
never meant to. How could I know what she felt? She never betrayed
herself by a glance or a tone of her voice. I loved her with all my
heart, and when you had both told me that everything was quite over
between you, I wanted her to know that I did. Was that disloyal to you,
since you had definitely given up the hope of marrying her, and since I
did not expect to see her again for years and thought she was quite
indifferent?"

"No," Guido answered, after a moment's thought. "But you should have
told me at once."

"When I came upstairs the Countess was still there, and you were quite
worn out. I put you to bed, meaning to tell you that same evening, after
you had rested. When I came back you had brain fever, and did not know
me. So I have had to wait until to-day."

"And you have seen each other constantly while I have been ill, of
course," said Guido, with some bitterness. "It was natural, I suppose."

"Since that day when we spoke on the staircase we have only been alone
together once, for a moment. I asked her then if I should tell her
mother, and she said 'Not yet.' Excepting that, we have never exchanged
a word that you and her mother might not have heard, nor a glance that
you might not have seen. We both knew that we were waiting for you to
get well, and we have waited."

Guido looked at him with a sort of wonder.

"That was like you," he said quietly.

"You understand, now," Lamberti continued. "You and I met her on the
same day at your a