because she had no will of her own when she was with
him.

And this was the end of her inspired visions, of her lofty ideals, of
her magnificent rules of life, of her studies of philosophy, her
meditations upon religion, and her dream of the last Vestal. She was
nothing but a weak girl, under the orders of a man she loved against her
will, and ready to do things she despised whenever he chose to give his
orders. He cared for no human being except his one friend. He was not to
be blamed for that, of course, but he was utterly indifferent to every
one else where his friend was concerned; every one must lie, or steal,
or do murder, if that could help Guido to get well. She was only one of
his instruments, and he probably had others. She was sure that half the
women in Rome loved Lamberto Lamberti without daring to say so. It was a
satisfaction to have heard from every one that he cared for none of
them. People spoke of him as a woman-hater, and one woman had said that
he had married a negress in Africa, and was the father of black savages
with red hair. That accounted for his going to Somali Land, she said,
and for his knowing so much about the habits of the people there.
Cecilia would have gladly killed the lady with a hat pin.

She was very unhappy, sitting alone on the steps after the sun had sunk
out of sight. The comedy was all to begin over again in an hour, for she
must go home and defend her conduct when her mother reproached her with
not acting fairly, and laughed at the idea that Guido was in danger of
his life. To-morrow she would have to write the daily note to him, she
would be obliged to compose affectionate phrases which would have come
quite naturally if she could have treated him merely as her best friend;
and he would translate affection to mean love, and another lie would
have been told. There was this, at least, about Guido, that he could not
order her about as Lamberti could. There was no authority in his eyes,
not even when he told her not to catch cold. Perhaps in all the time she
had known him, she had liked him best when he had been angry, at the
garden party, and had demanded to know her secret. But she would not
acknowledge that. If the situation had been reversed and Lamberti,
instead of Guido, had insisted on knowing what she meant to hide, she
could not have helped telling him. It was an abominable state of things,
but there was nothing to be done, and that was the worst part of it.
Lamberti knew Guido much better than she did, and if Lamberti told her
gravely that Guido might do something desperate if she broke with him,
she was obliged to believe it and to act accordingly. There might not be
one chance in a thousand, but the one-thousandth chance was just the one
that might have its turn. One might disregard it for oneself, but one
had no right to overlook it where another's life was concerned. At all
events she must wait till Guido was quite well again, for a man in a
fever really might do anything rash. Why did Lamberti not take away the
revolver that always lay ready in the drawer? It would be much safer,
though Guido probably had plenty of other weapons that would serve the
purpose. Guido was just the kind of pacific man who would have a whole
armoury of guns and pistols, as if he were always expecting to kill
something or somebody. She was sure that Lamberti, who had killed men
with his own hand, did not keep any sort of weapon in his room. If he
had a revolver of his own, it was probably carefully cleaned, greased,
wrapped up and put away with the things he used when he was sent on
expeditions. It was a thousand pities that Guido was not exactly like
Lamberti!

Cecilia rose at last, weary of thinking about it all, disgusted with her
own weakness, and decidedly ill-disposed towards her fellow-creatures.
The slightly flattened upper lip was compressed rather tightly against
the fuller lower one as she went back to find Petersen, and as she held
her head very high, her lids drooped somewhat scornfully over her eyes.
No one can ever be as supercilious as some people look when they are
angry with themselves and are thinking what miserable creatures they
really are.

It was late when Cecilia reached the Palazzo Massimo and went in on foot
under the dark carriageway after Petersen had paid the cab under the
watchful gaze of the big liveried porter. The Countess was already
dressing for dinner, and Cecilia went to her own room at once. The
consequence was that she did not know of her mother's invitation to
Lamberti, until she came into the drawing-room and saw the two together,
waiting for her.

"Did I forget to tell you that Signor Lamberti was coming to dinner?"
asked her mother.

"There was no particular reason why you should have told me," she
answered indifferently, as she held out her hand to Lamberti. "It is not
exactly a dinner party! How is he?" she asked, speaking to him.

"He is better this evening, thank you."

Why should he say "thank you," as if Guido were his brother or his
father? She resented it. Surely there was no need for continually
accentuating the fact that Guido was the only person living for whom he
had the slightest natural affection! This was perhaps exaggerated, but
she was glad of it, just then.

She, who would have given all for him, wished savagely that some woman
would make him fall in love and treat him with merciless barbarity.




CHAPTER XXIII


Cecilia felt that evening as if she could resist Lamberti's influence at
last, for she was out of humour with herself and with every one else.
When they had dined, and had said a multitude of uninteresting things
about Guido, for they were all under a certain constraint while the meal
lasted, they came back to the drawing-room. Lamberti had the inscrutable
look Cecilia had lately seen in his face, and which she took for the
outward sign of his indifference to anything that did not concern his
friend. When he spoke to her, he looked at her as if she were a chair or
a table, and when he was not speaking to her he did not look at her at
all.

In the drawing-room, she waited her opportunity until her mother had sat
down. The butler had set the little tray with the coffee and three cups
on a small three-legged table. On pretence that the latter was unsteady,
Cecilia carried the tray to another place at some distance from her
mother. Lamberti followed her to take the Countess's cup, and then came
back for his own. Cecilia spoke to him in a low voice while she was
putting in the sugar and pouring out the coffee, a duty which in many
parts of Italy and France is still assigned 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 do not mean that you still wish I would marry him after--after what
I told you the other evening?"

The interrogation was in her voice, and that was hard, and demanded an
answer. Lamberti looked away, and did not reply at once, for he meant to
tell the exact truth, and was not quite sure where it lay. He felt, too,
that her manner had changed notably since they had last talked, and
though he had no intention of taking the upper hand, it was not in his
nature to submit to any dictation, even from the woman he loved.

"Answer me, please," said Cecilia, rather imperiously.

"Yes, I will. I wish it were possible for you to marry him, that is
all."

"And you know that it is not."

"I am almost sure that it is not."

"How cautious you are!"

"The