"Miss Meredith," said the Marchesa, taking the chair I mechanically offered her, and waving her hand towards another, "pray be seated."

I obeyed, feeling secretly much in awe of the rigid little figure sitting very upright opposite me.

"What, after all, is the love of a young man but a passing infatuation?"

This was the first gun fired into the enemy's camp, but there was no answering volley.

That she spoke in all good faith I fully believe, and I felt how useless would be any discussion between us of the point. I looked down in silence.

"Miss Meredith," went on the dry, fluent tones, which I was beginning to feel were the tones of doom, "I will refrain from blaming you in this unfortunate matter. I will merely state the case as it stands. You come into this family, are well received, kindly treated, and regarded with esteem by us all. In return for this, I am bound to say, you perform your duties and do what is required of you with amiability. So far all is well. But there are traditions, feelings, sacred customs, and emotions belonging to the family where you have been received of which you can have no knowledge. That is not required, nor expected of you. What is expected of you, as of every right-minded person, is that you should at least respect what is of such importance to others. Is this the case? Have you not rather taken delight in outraging our feelings in their most delicate relations; in trampling, in your selfish ignorance, on all that we hold most dear?"

Her words stung me; they were cruel words, but I had sworn inwardly to stand by my guns.

With hands interlocked and drooping head, I sat before her without word.

"We had looked forward to this home-coming of my son," she went on, branching off into another talk, "as to the beginning of a fresh epoch of our lives, his father and I, we that are no longer young. To him we had looked for the carrying on of our race. From my daughter-in-law we have been obliged to despair of issue. Andrea, suitably married and established in the home of his ancestors, is what we all dreamed one day to see—nor do I even now entirely abandon the hope of seeing it."

With burning cheeks, and an awful sense that a web was being woven about me, I rose stiffly from my seat, and went over to a cabinet where stood my mother's portrait.

I looked a moment at the pictured eyes, as if for guidance, then said in a low voice:

"Marchesa, I have given my word to your son, and only at his bidding can I take it back."

"It does not take much penetration," she replied, "to know that my son is the last person to bid you do anything of the kind. That he is the soul of chivalry, that the very fact of a person being in an unfortunate position would of itself attract his regard, a child might easily discover."

She spoke with such genuine feeling that for a moment my heart went out towards her; for a moment our eyes met, and not unkindly.

"No doubt," she went on, after a pause, and rising from her seat, "no doubt you represented the precautions we thought necessary to adopt, for your own protection as well my son's, as a form of persecution. If you did not actually represent it to him, I feel sure you gave him to understand that such was the case."

She had hit the mark.

With an agonizing rush of shame, of despair, I remembered my own outbreak on the piazza that morning; how I had confided to Andrea, unasked, my intention of going away, and of the sorrow the prospect gave me.

Had I been mistaken? Had the message of his eyes, his voice, his manner, meant nothing? Had I indeed been unmindful of my woman's modesty? The Marchesa was aware at once of having struck home, and the monotonous tones began again.

"Of course, Miss Meredith, if you choose to take advantage of my son's chivalry, and of his passing fancy—for Andrea is exceedingly susceptible and, no doubt, believes himself in love with you—if, I say, you choose to do this, there is no more to be said.

"Andrea will never take back his word, on that you may rely. But be sure of this, his life will be spoiled, and he will know it. It is not to be expected that you should realize the meaning of ancestral pride, of family honour. Perhaps you think the sentiments which have taken centuries to grow can wither up in a day before the flame of a foolish fancy?"

She had conquered. Moving over to her I looked straight in her face. My voice rang strange and hollow: "By marrying your son I should bring no disgrace upon him nor his family. But I do not intend to marry him."

She had not anticipated so easy a victory. Her cheek flushed, almost as if with compunction. She held out her hands towards me.

But as for me, I turned away ungraciously, and, going up to the chest, began to lift out my under linen, and to pile it on the bed.

"Marchesa, do not thank me, do not praise me? I do not know if I am doing right or wrong."

"Signorina, you have taken the course of an honourable woman."

I went over to the corner where my box stood, and lifted the lid with trembling hands.

"Marchesa, will your servant find out what hour of the night the train leaves for Genoa? and will he have a drosky ready in time to take me to the station?"

"Miss Meredith, there is no necessity for this haste. You cannot depart like this, and without advising your family."

I laid a dress—the little black dress I had worn at the dance—at the bottom of the box. It ought to have gone at the top, but such details did not occupy me at the moment.

"I trust," I said, "that there may be no difficulties placed in the way of my immediate departure."

She came up to me in some agitation.

"But, signorina!"

"Marchesa," I answered, "you have my promise. Is not that what you wanted?"

I intended a dismissal, I frankly own it, but the Marchesa took my rudeness with such humility that for the moment I felt ashamed of myself.

"You have forced me, Miss Meredith, to speak to you as I have never spoken before to a stranger beneath my roof. To fly in the face of the hospitable traditions of the house——"

There came a knock at the door, and the servant announced that the Marchesino desired to speak with Miss Meredith.

We two women, who both loved Andrea, looked at one another.

"You will have to tell him yourself, signorina; from no one else would my son receive your message." The Marchesa turned away as she spoke.

"I will write to him."

Hastily dismissing the servant with words to the effect that Andrea should be waited on in a few minutes, the Marchesa handed me, in silence, the little paper-case which lay on the table. With uncertain fingers I wrote:

"Marchesino,—We were both of us hasty and ill-advised this morning. I must thank you for the great honour you have done me, but at the same time I must beg of you to release me from the promise I have made.—Elsie Meredith."

I handed the open sheet to the Marchesa, who read it carefully, folded it up, thanked me and went from the room.

Then suddenly the great bed began to waltz, the open box in the corner, the painted ceiling, the chest and cabinet to whirl about in hopeless confusion. I don't know how it came about, but for the first time in my life I fainted.