Ragna sat at the window of a little apartment overlooking the Piazza S. Spirito. The day was hot and the green Venetian shutters left the room in a refreshing dusk very grateful in comparison to the glare of sunshine outside, beating pitilessly on the light walls of the houses across the square and vibrating in waves of heat over the stunted palms in the garden below. In a shady corner a water-seller who had set up his little stand, gay with bottles and coloured glasses and was languidly chaffing a facchino who had come to refresh himself with a glass of lemonade. The vendor of watermelons, whose stand nearly touched that of the acquaiolo, had gone to sleep under his lurid sign of firemen rushing to extinguish the fire simulated by a glorious red melon the size of a house. Flies droned in the stillness and the girl fanned herself languidly. The room where she sat was furnished in the usual shabby-genteel style of the furnished apartment. A table with a cheap tapestry cover on which stood a glass lamp and a folding case of books occupied the middle of the room; about it were ranged a few poorly carved chairs in the Florentine style. A sofa appeared to lean against the stencilled wall and over it hung a miserable bituminous copy of the Madonna della Seggiola, in a scaling gilt frame. A wooden shelf along one wall supported two vases of dried grasses and paper flowers and a few photographs. There were also yellowed prints of Garibaldi, King Umberto, Queen Margherita and Vittorio Emanuele II.

Ragna herself occupied a long invalid-chair of rattan and by her side stood a small table on which were a small vase of fresh flowers, a half-cut book and a glass of syrup and water.

She had been in Florence about three weeks and had settled herself at once in the small apartment chosen for her by Dr. Ferrati. She had with her Carolina her Venetian protÉgÉe and who had proved to be just the person to help her through the difficult time to come. Carolina, effusively grateful, was devoted to her young mistress and evinced a truly Latin sympathy, and tact to the delicate situation. To her, at least, Ragna was a superior person, unfortunate perhaps, but to be admired and respected none the less.

During the first few days, the newness of it all and the interest afforded by learning Italian ways of housekeeping and the work of arranging her belongings, had occupied Ragna's mind, but now that there was nothing more to do, only to live and wait, her spirits flagged and she became dull and unable to interest herself in the small details of her circumscribed existence. Her thoughts had freer scope and wandered far and wide, increasing in bitterness as the days crawled by. The first flush of her resolution to down the dictates of society at large by the arrogance of her individual will and strength of character, had died down, and she dragged through day after day in a state of dreary apathy.

Egidio Valentini had come to see her several times and was keeping careful watch over her state of mind in order to seize the psychological moment for the furtherance of his project. He observed with satisfaction her growing depression and discontent with herself and her immediate surroundings. Ferrati gave her as much of his time as he could, unfortunately, it was but little, absorbed as he was in his professional duties, and though Virginia was kind, Ragna did not yet feel quite at ease with her. With Valentini she had many long and interesting conversations; he could be fascinating when he chose and with her he did choose, also the consideration and respect of his manner soothed her irritated self-consciousness, ever on the alert for a slight. She grew more and more dependent on him and on his visits and he occupied a larger portion of her thoughts than she would have cared to admit. She wondered sometimes, if he had penetrated the reason of her return to Florence, or if he accepted the fable of her ill health. If he had guessed, nothing in his manner pointed to the fact, and there was nothing sufficiently marked as yet in Ragna's appearance to make her condition patent to the inexperienced eye. She thought with dread of the time when he must know, and wondered how the knowledge would affect him and their relations, for his good opinion was dear to her and her heart sank at thought of losing it. She did not often speak to him of Ferrati, and the latter was in ignorance of the frequency of Egidio's visits, as he had seen but little of him since the return to Florence and Egidio was careful to choose his hours with Ragna, when there would be little likelihood of encountering his friend, as he did not wish to submit himself to questioning or comment.

Ragna, as she lay in her chair was thinking of Valentini and expecting him. She was dressed in white piquÉ and the severe lines of the frock suited her well. Her hair was arranged partly in plaits piled on the top of her head, and partly left loose, flowing over the dull blue cushion behind her head. At her breast she wore a bunch of scented geranium leaves.

Valentini had promised to bring for her inspection a water colour copy of one of Botticelli's paintings he was making for the Arundell Society of London. The continuance of her art studies was the pretext for their intercourse thinly veiling a loverlike intensity on his part that was not without its disquieting side to the girl, and on hers a pathetic dependence on his friendship and company.

She lay waiting, half drowsy with the heat, recollection in abeyance, idly afloat on a hazy sea of thought. Finally she heard the door-bell tinkle and Carolina ushered in the visitor. He had left his hat and stick in the outside passage and entered the salotto carrying in one hand a bunch of gardenias, and in the other his picture wrapped in paper. His footsteps rang on the bare tile floor as he advanced to her side and laid his floral offering on her knees.

"How good of you to come so early," she said.

"Early? I thought the hour would never come! It seems such a long time, to me at least, since I saw you last. I have brought the picture you see,—I put the last touches to it this morning."

He unwrapped the picture as he spoke and gave it into her hands. It was a careful copy of exquisite delicacy of colour and finish and she gazed on it with a kind of wonder.

"How beautiful it is, and how wonderfully done!"

He flushed with pleasure at the note of genuine admiration in her voice.

"It's my business to do it well," he said simply. "I am glad you like it." He drew up a chair and seated himself beside her. "They will pay me well for it," he added, then as he saw the note jarred, "but it is not for the money I do it, though that is not to be despised—and the labourer is worthy of his hire. I love the work; it is the greatest pleasure in the world I think, to do the work one loves and do it well, to see it growing under one's touch. I lose myself quite and the time passes without my knowing it. When you are stronger you must take up your work again and you will feel what a satisfaction it is."

"The lines are all so beautiful," said Ragna tracing them with her slender forefinger.

"Ah, that is where the old Masters are inimitable especially Botticelli and his school. Do you not remember what I was saying to you the other day, that the study of them and their methods is the foundation of all true art? What do your modern painters make of the use of the line and the science of draughtsmanship? They slosh on their colours with barely a thought for structure and the result, pah!"

He took the picture from her as he spoke and propped it up against the lamp on the centre table. Ragna smiled.

"You are hard on the moderns."

"Hard on them! But I am right to be! They take themselves seriously, not their work. And their training! Do they begin by grinding the colours and washing the brushes in the Master's studio and work slowly up from stage to stage until they become masters in their turn? Not they! They spend a few months or years in academies or studios or schools and then when they are tired of serious study, set up for themselves and with rockety technique and flashy design impress the imagination of the crowds. They spill pots of paint over their canvases and to hide their bad drawing, they do things in flat tones because they can't model and call it decorative art! They work for the commission, and a good price for a picture, a piece of scamped meretricious work, pure clap-trap, means more to them than all the traditions of art—yet they talk of Art for Art's sake! I tell you they are dirt! Dirt!"

He was carried away by his theme and marched up and down the small salotto, stamping his feet, gesticulating, threatening with annihilation the entire breed of modern artists. His enthusiasm impressed Ragna; she saw in it the expression of burning conviction, and its true character escaped her—that of a facile heat of prejudice easily aroused and incapable of cool or judicious comparison. Still he was at his best when talking of art, and his love of it was entirely sincere.

He looked at the girl with a critical eye.

"I should like to paint you there, just as you are; you would make a delightful study with the reflected light on your white dress and the harmony of your golden hair and the blue cushion and the green shutters beyond in that half light. You should have some of the gardenias on the table by you, though, instead of those pink flowers, to make the colour scheme perfect—all green and blue and cool with the one relieving note of your hair." He paused close beside her. "Your hair is the most beautiful I have ever seen—so fine, so silky—so much of it, and such a rare shade, like moonlight on gold!" He lifted a shining strand, drawing it through his fingers with a sort of voluptuous pleasure, then he raised it to his lips. Ragna shrank away from him, a half-frightened look in her eyes. He laid a hand on her shoulder, compelling her glance.

"I love you. Surely you know that, you must have seen it?"

"Don't," she said faintly, "you must not say that!"

"And why not, Ragna cara?" he asked sinking to one knee and pushing aside the chair he had occupied.

"Don't!" she repeated, drawing back as far as she could.

"Ragna, you know that I love you," he insisted. "I love you, I loved you before you went to Venice! Do you not remember I told you that you would come back—to me? And you have, carissima! I think you love me too, is it not so?"

"I don't, I can't!" she answered wildly. "Oh, Signor Valentini, you don't know—I have no right to love anyone or to let anyone love me!"

"Why not, dear?" he asked and tried to take possession of her hands but she resisted him. "I love you, and I want to marry you."

"Oh, please don't, Signor Valentini! We have been such good friends, please don't spoil it!"

"We have been friends, yes, but we shall be more than friends."

"No! no! That can never be!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Oh, don't ask me! I can't! It is quite impossible; and besides I don't love you in that way."

"But I love you!"

"I tell you it is impossible."

"But why should it be impossible? I love you, you are more to me than my life,—I can't live without you. You must be my wife or—" He made a gesture of utter despair, "Ragna, dearest, you must be mine or my life is finished."

"Signor Valentini, you must not talk like this—it is quite impossible."

"But why?"

Ragna closed her eyes wearily and drew a long breath. The moment she dreaded had come, and so suddenly that she found herself unprepared. She still tried to gain time.

"Because—because I cannot marry anyone. But it should be enough that I do not love you."

"But I will marry you without that and trust to the future."

"I tell you it is impossible for me to marry anyone."

He rose to his feet and stood looking down at her searchingly. She turned uneasily under his gaze, and reddened, her fan slipped from her knees to the floor.

"Ragna," he said reproachfully, "what is it? Cannot you tell me? I am not like other men, I love you for yourself alone, you can tell me anything, anything,—nothing would change my feeling for you. Have I not been a good friend? Have I not earned the right to your confidence? Tell me all, dear,—you owe me at least an explanation of your refusal."

Ragna obstinately kept the lids lowered over her eyes; she twisted and untwisted her fingers in silent agony.

"Tell me, dear," he plead.

She looked up at him piteously. "Why do you insist? Don't you see that you are hurting me?"

"You have said too much or too little," he answered. "In justice to me and to yourself you should take me into your confidence."

She sat up, a dull flush spreading over her face. "Since you will know then, it is this: I am going to have a child." She sank back, covering her face with her hands.

"Ragna!" his cry rang out in the stillness. She heard him sink to a chair, pushing it back as he did so with a grating noise on the tiled floor. Presently he rose and came to her side, she remained motionless; he drew her resisting hands down from her face.

"Ragna, is this true?"

She nodded, not daring to look at him. He knelt beside her.

"Ragna, will you be my wife? Have I proved that I love you, now?"

She gazed at him in amazement.

"What! you still—?"

"Yes, dearest, I still love you. I told you that I was not like other men, I love you for yourself. Whatever your past may have been, if you have been unfortunate, all the more reason that I should protect your future, that I should give you the shield of my name."

"But there is not only myself, there is the child," she said weakly.

He frowned but recovered himself instantly.

"The child? I shall love it as I would my own,—is it not yours? I shall recognise it—it will be mine."

"You are generous," she said, "but I cannot accept, it would be taking an unfair advantage—I should be doing you a wrong."

"That is as I choose to look at it, and I don't consider it is."

"But I don't love you."

"Do you love anyone else?" He asked with swift scrutiny.

"No."

"Then you will love me in time—as long as there is no one else I am sure of that. All I ask is that you should marry me, that you should accept the protection I offer. For the child's sake you must accept—you can't refuse your child an honourable name. You will come to love me dear, I know it, and until that time I will be a brother to you, a friend, nothing more. All I ask is the privilege of helping you!"

He was carried away by the nobility of the pose, it was a fine attitude un beau giste; it fired his histrionic imagination and gave a ring of sincerity to his voice. For a moment he believed in himself as the chivalrous rescuer of distressed damsels.

"You do not know all, let me tell you all," she demurred.

"Yes, you must give me your entire confidence—you owe me that."

So she told him the whole story, and he pressed her hand the while to show his sympathy. At the end she paused, waiting—

"I can only repeat what I said before, dear: will you consent to marry me? If you like, don't think of yourself at all, think of me—I am a lonely man, an unhappy man, I have had a hard, disappointing life. You have become the lodestar of my life, you, Ragna! With you beside me I can do great things: I need you dear, without you life would be a desert. Last year I was very ill with typhoid fever, I nearly died; I was alone, no one loved me, no one cared whether I lived or died. If I were to be ill again who would care for me, who would nurse me? Whom have I to welcome me when I come home at night tired and discouraged? Oh, Ragna, say 'yes,' do! and I will love you always for that word!"

His voice rose and fell in impassioned cadence, his eyes burned into hers, how was she not to believe him? How was she to refuse the succour so timely offered, seemingly so disinterested? Still she made an effort.

"I must think it over, you must go away and let me think—oh, don't imagine I do not recognise your generosity—but I cannot think it right for me to take advantage of it."

"Ragna," he said solemnly, "this means more to me than you think. I told you that my life without you would be worth nothing to me. I give you my word of honour that if you refuse I will kill myself—I can't live without you. I mean what I say and I always speak the truth. When I was a little boy in the collegio Cardinal Ferri who was the head-master used to call me up when there had been any mischief, and say to me: 'Tell me the straight of this, Valentini, you are the only one I know who always speaks the truth!' and I would weep, I would struggle, but I had to tell the truth, and I did. And remember, Ragna, if you marry me, I will be a brother to you, dear, it will be enough for me just to have you near me, to feel your sweet presence in the house, to have your society always:—I will not ask for more unless you give it of your own accord."

"Give me time," said Ragna desperately, "give me time to think it over."

"Very well, I will give you until to-morrow at this hour. I shall come for my answer,—and if it is not 'yes,' you know what will happen, I swear it!" He released her hands and she passed them over her face.

"Till to-morrow," she said, "that is not much time."

"It is enough,—and it is too long for a man to wait for his death sentence or for the gift of life. Oh, Ragna, I do love you so! It must be yes."

"Now you must go," she said.

"Don't send me away, dear,—here at least I can see you, I am with you, life is possible. Let me stay a little longer!"

"No, you must go now, I can't think clearly with you here. If you want your answer to-morrow you must go now."

"I will go then, dear, since you wish it—see how obedient I am! You can do anything with me, anything, Ragna darling! Give me one kiss then and I will go?"

He bent over her but she turned her head away.

"No, not that! and you said in any case that you would be content to be a brother to me."

"But you would let a brother kiss you! Just one, darling!"

"No," she said firmly and he saw that it would be unwise to insist.

"As you will, then, dear,—see, again I yield to your wish, and to-morrow you will give me my answer—remember what it will mean to me and to you."

He rose and slowly crossed the room and, as he reached the door, turned with the one word,

"Remember!"

Left alone, Ragna felt overwhelmed by the unexpectedness of the turn her affairs had taken and torn with doubt as to the course to pursue. She did not question Egidio's sincerity, had she not seen the tears in his eyes as he pleaded with her? And besides what ulterior motive could he possibly have? She was consumed with gratitude for his generosity, the offer of his name and protection to a girl in her position—to her it would mean salvation. Marriage with a man who knew all and in spite of it loved her still, would be a haven of refuge, it would save her reputation and give her child the advantage of a father's name. But could she accept the offer, could she accept the charity of it? True, Egidio had put it as a benefit to be conferred still more on him than on her—but even so, could she accept? With her woman's knowledge of the facts of life and marriage, could she be his wife? She did not love him and the thought of submitting to his kisses and caresses sickened her with physical repugnance—but then he had said he would be a brother, a friend, nothing more, that merely to have her by his side would satisfy him. As a friend she liked him and found him interesting, and his person was not unpleasing apart from that faint underlying sense of physical repulsion she was conscious of in his presence. Then his threat of suicide,—he meant it, she could see that! Could she take upon herself the responsibility of driving him to such desperate courses? Could she bear the thought of his blood upon her head in addition to her burthen, heavy enough already, in all conscience? Still marriage, a binding contract involving her whole life and his,—could she honestly bring herself to accept?

She rose and feverishly paced the floor, refusing the refreshment of eggs and milk that Carolina brought her. Oh, why was this decision forced upon her now? The more she thought the more confused did she become. All arguments were in favour of her accepting and she was at a loss to explain her reluctance. Some hidden instinct warned her against it,—but could she in justice to herself, to Valentini, and above all, to the child—could she refuse? He had said that he would love the child as his own, might not the child himself, reproach her some day for bringing him into the world nameless, a bastard, when it had lain with her to give him an honourable name and position? For the child's sake could she dare to refuse? Surely for his sake, she could fulfill her part of the contract, be an affectionate friend, a faithful and dutiful helpmate, wife in name only? Finally in her perplexity, she decided to lay the case before Ferrati and abide by his judgment in the matter. He, a man of the world, a friend both of herself and of Valentini would know what was right, would counsel her wisely. This decision brought her some measure of calm, but when she was in bed her torment returned, and she spent the night feverishly arguing the pros and cons.

Valentini, on the contrary, slept well, he was entirely satisfied with the trend of his affairs, with the way he had managed the interview and felt quite sure of the girl's ultimate decision. Fru Boyesen's fortune loomed large in his expectant imagination.