In the rather gloomy ante-chamber, papered as it was in old green myrtle, and austerely furnished in dark carved wood, the electric light was lit, but shaded by a milky, opaque globe. Francesco, the valet, silent, discreet, correct as usual, helped his master, Lucio Sabini, to take off his coat and freed him of hat, stick, and gloves. Lucio entered with a more than ever tired and bored appearance, with a pale and contracted face. In a quick, colourless voice he asked:

"Are there any letters?"

"One; I put it on the small table."

Lucio Sabini experienced a fleeting hesitation before he entered his own apartment, which was a vast room where the shade of dusk was spreading from three broad windows, two of which looked out on the Lungarno Serristori and the third on to a little square, so that the dark red, green, and maroon of the roomy, deep furniture—arm-chairs and sofas in English leather—merged into the single tint of shadow, and mixed with the mahogany, with an occasional gilt fillet, of the large bookcases and big and little tables. Here and there only the whiteness of a china vase, the gleam of a silver figure, the brightness of a statue of Signa's were to be distinguished. But in spite of the gloom which the dying day at the end of February caused in the room, the oblong envelope of the letter shone clearly.

Slowly he advanced amongst the furniture, making for a large arm-chair behind the writing-table, without lifting his eyes from the whiteness of the letter. He threw himself into the chair, overcome, holding the letter before him without touching it—and some minutes passed thus. Suddenly he gave a start, sat up in his chair, put his hand on a switch, and the electric light was lit in three or four large lamps. Without touching it he saw that which he had guessed in the half-light, Lilian Temple's writing and the envelope without a stamp.

"She is here ... she is here——" he stammered, growing very pale, and speaking aloud.

His twitching hands touched the letter, but still without opening it: beneath the envelope he found a long, narrow visiting-card. The card said: "Miss May Ford," and in fine handwriting in pencil: "Will return." He let his head sink on the arm of the chair as he held the card in his fingers, which almost let it fall, and lapsed into thought for some moments in the silence of the room. Mechanically he rang the bell and started on seeing Francesco almost immediately before him on the other side of the desk.

"This letter was brought by hand, wasn't it?" he murmured, looking at the servant as if he saw him not.

"Yes, Excellency. It was left with the visiting-card."

"By whom?"

"By a lady, Excellency."

"A lady ... was she young?"

"No, Excellency."

"Was she alone?"

"Alone, Excellency."

"At what time?"

"At four o'clock."

"And what did you tell her?"

"That your Excellency usually returned about half-past six and nearly always went out about eight to dinner."

"Ah!" exclaimed Lucio Sabini.

With a gesture he dismissed the man. Scarcely was he gone when Lucio rose, a prey to a vain agitation; he went up and down the room as if seeking something he found not, but without really looking for it; he gazed around with dazed eyes, as if to question the farthest corners of the vast room, he stumbled against some piece of furniture without being aware of it, and touched two or three objects without seeing them, replacing them where he had found them. Inevitably he returned to his writing-table, his glance settled on the closed envelope without the stamp, over which spread Lilian Temple's large, flexible handwriting.

"She is here ... she is here——" he exclaimed desperately. Twice he took the letter, turned it over, made as if to open it with a rapid, despairing gesture; the second time he threw it down on the table as if it burnt him. He passed into the adjacent room, his bedroom, and turned on the light. The room seemed rather gay with its bright and fresh-coloured Liberty silk, bright brass bed, fine lace curtains and partiÈres, and the lacquered wood of soft grey. He made for a small desk, opened its largest drawer and drew it forth. It was full of Lilian Temple's letters, written on fine sheets of foreign paper, very voluminous in character, which were crossed horizontally and vertically. Beneath them a large envelope was hidden where surely would be a portrait, or perhaps several portraits, of Lilian Temple; but quite in the front of the drawer there was a large bundle of unopened letters, like the one he had left on his writing-table in the salotto. With a slightly trembling hand he pushed back all the leaves which were issuing in confusion from their opened envelopes and passed them to the back, hiding especially the large wrapper with the photograph, from which he averted his eyes. He separated all the unopened letters, and counted them twice, as if he thought that he was mistaken. There were fourteen. Fourteen letters from Lilian Temple which he had not opened: he looked at the one which seemed the oldest in date, and he seemed to read on the English stamp the date of the 26th of December. In three months Lilian had written him fourteen letters which he had not read, because he had not opened them; and the last ones he had thrown away so rapidly without looking at them that he had not even the stamp or date of departure. For some moments he stood by the open drawer. An agonising uncertainty was to be read on his face: two or three times he made as if to take the closed packet of letters and open one, or some, or all of them; but two or three times he hesitated and repented. At last he shrugged his shoulders roughly, pushed back the drawer and closed it. A dull noise at his shoulder made him turn round:

"Miss Ford is asking from the 'Savoy' if Signor Lucio Sabini has returned, and if he can receive her at once," demanded Francesco.

"Did you reply that I had returned?" asked Lucio, biting his lips a little.

"I replied that your Excellency had returned," said Francesco, "but nothing else."

"Say that I am expecting Miss Ford at once."

Dazed, he passed a hand over his forehead, as if wishing to resume the direction of his tumultuous thoughts: he strove to impress there an energy that should arouse his lost will. But his thoughts and will lost themselves in great tumult and disorder around this idea, these words:

"If she were to come too; if she were to come with her."

Like an automaton he passed again into his room. With a rapid gesture he hid the unopened letter, the fifteenth, the last from Florence. He moved some chairs to occupy his hands; for a moment he leant with his burning forehead against the glass of his bookcase, hiding his face. But the sound of the bell in the anteroom startled him from his abandonment.

He jumped up, composed and tranquil, advanced to the door, and bowed deeply to Miss May Ford, who entered, announced by Francesco. Kissing the grey-gloved hand which the Englishwoman extended to him, he led her to a chair and sat down opposite her, turning his shoulders to the large lamp on the writing-table so as not to show his face. Dressed in grey with a black hat, Miss May Ford showed an imperturbable face, whence had escaped every expression of the amiability of a former time—a tranquil, cold, imperturbable face.

"Welcome to Florence, Miss Ford."

"How do you do, Signor Sabini? Are you quite well?"

"Yes—thanks."

"Have you been keeping well?"

"No," he murmured, "I have been indisposed for some time, for a month."

"Oh, dear," exclaimed Miss Ford, with a conventional intonation of regret. "I hope you are all right now."

"I am all right now, thanks," replied Lucio coldly, perceiving that she did not believe him.

They exchanged a rapid glance. He was the first, with an effort of will, to question her:

"Are you alone, Miss Ford?"

"How alone?" she asked, pretending not to understand.

"Isn't your travelling companion with you?" he asked, with difficulty suppressing his emotion.

"She is not with me," she replied coldly.

"Isn't she in Florence?" he asked again, unable this time to conceal his anxiety.

For a moment Miss Ford hesitated. Then she replied again:

"She is not in Florence."

"Ah," he exclaimed, with a deep sigh, "and where is she?"

Miss Ford scrutinised him with a long glance: then she said:

"Don't you know where Lilian Temple is?"

Beneath that glance, and at those words, he was lost and showed his loss. He stammered:

"I don't know: how could I know?"

"But you ought to know," added Miss Ford, looking at him.

"That is true; perhaps I ought to know," he replied, without understanding what she said.

"In her letters she always told you what she was doing, and where she was going," added the old maid, in a firm, precise tone.

"Yes," he replied, throwing her a desperate glance.

Miss Ford lowered her face behind her black veil and became silent, as if she were gathering together her ideas. Confronted with her, silent and convulsed, Lucio Sabini waited for her words, incapable of saying anything unless he were asked. Then she asked him calmly, with cold courtesy:

"Will you be so good as to answer a few of my questions, Signor Sabini?"

He looked at her; and his eyes, the eyes of a man who had lived, enjoyed, and suffered much, almost besought her to have mercy. She averted hers naturally and asked:

"Do you remember that you left us, Signor Sabini, on the 20th of September? Do you remember that you told Lilian—the last words on the companion-way of the steamer as you were leaving—that you expected her soon, as soon as possible, in Italy?"

What anguish there was in the man's eyes which were fixed pleadingly on the woman, as if to beseech her to spare him that cup; what anguish as he bowed assent.

The Englishwoman continued coldly: "Afterwards she wrote to you very often from England. You replied promptly and often in long letters. Is that so?"

"It is so," he answered, in a weak voice.

"I don't know Lilian's letters or yours. I know that you always wrote that you wished to see her again, that you would come to England or that she should come to Italy. Is that true?"

"It is true," the man consented, weakly.

There was an instant of silence.

"Later," resumed Miss Ford, "you began to reply less frequently, and more curtly. At last you spoke no more of your journey to England nor of Lilian's to Italy."

"I spoke no more of it," he consented, with bowed head.

"Finally you ceased to write to Lilian. It is three months since you have written to her."

"It is three months," he said, like a sorrowful echo.

Miss May Ford made her inquiry with perfect composure and courtesy, without any expression manifesting itself on her face, without any expression passing into her voice. Only she kept her eyes on those of Lucio's, her limpid, proud English eyes, which spoke truth of soul and sought it in the sad, furtive eyes of Lucio Sabini.

"Then," resumed the Englishwoman, "as my young friend had no reply to her letters, and as I was here in Florence, she begged me to come and find you and to ask you for this reply."

"Have you come on purpose?" he asked disconsolately. "Did you make the journey on purpose?"

"Oh, no!" replied Miss Ford at once, punctiliously. "Not on purpose! I am here for my pleasure, and my friend sent me to you for an answer."

"But what answer? Whatever answer can I give Lilian Temple, Miss Ford?" the man cried, in great agitation.

"I don't know. You ought to know, Signor Sabini," she replied boldly. "An answer, I suppose, to her last letter."

"Which last letter? Which?"

"That of to-day: that which I brought you," concluded Miss Ford simply.

He leant forward for a moment in his chair, then fell back suddenly, overcome. And the sad confession escaped almost involuntarily from his lips:

"I haven't read it."

"You haven't read it, Signor Sabini?" asked Miss Ford, with her first, fleeting frown.

"I haven't read it," he again affirmed, with bowed head.

"Oh!" only exclaimed Miss Ford, in a tone of marvel and incredulity.

Lucio rose; with trembling hands he sought in his writing-table, took the closed letter and showed it to the Englishwoman.

"Here it is, untouched. I haven't read it; I haven't opened it."

"Why?" asked May Ford coldly.

"Through fear, through cowardice," exclaimed Lucio Sabini crudely.

Miss Ford was silent, with lowered eyes; her gloved hands grasped the handle of her umbrella. And Lucio, deciding to stretch, with his cruel hands, the wound from which his soul was bleeding, continued:

"Through fear and cowardice I did not open this letter to-day from Lilian Temple, as I have not done for nearly three months—please understand me—I have opened none. You do not believe me? It is not credible? I will fetch her letters."

Convulsively he vanished into the other room and reappeared immediately with the fourteen sealed letters and threw them into Miss Ford's lap.

"There they are. They are all I have received since December: I haven't read them, I tell you, nor opened them. It is abominable, but it is so; it is grotesque, but it is so! I am a man, I am thirty-five, I have seen death, I have challenged death, but I have never dared for three months to open a letter from Lilian. I have no longer had the courage. In fact, the abominable cruelty in not reading what she wrote me, the infamy and grotesqueness of not opening the envelopes, the ignoring of which I believed myself incapable, the cruelty for which I hate and despise myself, I have done through fear and cowardice and through nothing else. Do you understand me?"

Slowly Miss Ford took the letters, one by one, read their addresses, and placed them one on the other in order. Raising her head, she asked, with great, even greater coldness:

"Fear? Cowardice?"

"Yes! Through fear of the suffering caused to myself and others, through not wishing to suffer or know suffering, or see, or measure the sufferings of others."

"Suffering? Sorrow?" again asked the cold voice of the Englishwoman.

"I suffer like one of the damned, Miss Ford," he added gloomily.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, with colourless intonation.

"And Lilian also suffers! Isn't it true that she suffers?"

"Yes, I believe she suffers," exclaimed Miss Ford, glacially.

By now she had made a pile of the fourteen sealed letters, and raising her head she said to Lucio Sabini:

"Must I take back all these letters, then, to my friend, so that she may see and understand, Signor Sabini? Give me the last as well and I will go."

And she made as if to rise and depart with her pile of letters, without further remark.

"Then Lilian is here?" cried Lucio Sabini, drawing near to the English lady, again convulsed. "She is here. Tell me that she is here."

Miss Ford hesitated a moment.

"No, Lilian is not here," she affirmed tranquilly.

"Ah, if only she were here, if only she were here!" he cried, hiding his face in his hands.

"Would you look for her, Signor Sabini? Would you see her? Would you speak with her?"

As one in a dream he looked at the Englishwoman: and at each question his face, contracted by his interior anguish, seemed discomposed.

"No," he replied in a slow, desolate voice. "No, I would not seek her out; I would not see her; I would not speak with her."

"Ah!"

"I must never see Lilian Temple again," he added, opening his arms desolately.

"Never again, Signor Sabini?"

"Never again."

"But why?"

He made a despairing but resolute movement.

"I am not free, Miss Ford."

"You have a wife?" and the Englishwoman's voice seemed slightly ironical.

"No, I haven't a wife; but I am even more tied and bound than if I had one."

"I don't know; I don't understand," she said.

"One sometimes leaves and deserts a wife. A lover is much more difficult. Sometimes it is impossible. It is impossible for me: I am a slave for ever."

He spoke harshly and brutally; but as if he were using such harshness and brutality against himself. In the light dimmed by the shades, it seemed as if a slight blush had spread over Miss Ford's pale face. The glaciality of her voice diminished: it seemed crossed by a subtle current of emotion, where also there was embarrassment, stubbornness, and pain. Miss May's questions were slower and more timid, more hesitating in some words, more broken with short silences, as if she had scarcely resumed the interrogation. Lucio's replies were precise, rough, gloomy, as if directed to a mysterious inquisitor of his soul, as if to his very own conscience.

"Isn't this person, this woman, free?"

"She is another's wife. Together we have betrayed a man's confidence."

"Do you adore this woman?"

"I adored her ten years ago. Now I adore her no more; but I am hers for ever."

"Then you love her very much?"

"I loved her with an ardent love. Now I no longer love her; but I am her slave."

"Does she love you?"

"She did adore and love me; but now no longer. Though without me she could not live."

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure. Beatrice Herz would prefer death to being deserted."

"But why?" exclaimed the Englishwoman, moved at last.

"Because we committed the sin of adultery."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, blushing furiously, and with a gesture that asked to be told no more.

"Ah, I beg your pardon, Miss Ford," exclaimed Lucio with a new exaltation, "I beg your pardon, if I offend your chastity and scandalise your modesty. But since you are here, Miss Ford, and since I shall not see you again, or again have before me a good, upright soul like yours, and since you will never again see the wretch before you, let me tell you, in the bitterest, most terrible words, all my horrible misery! Miss May, God is right, religion is right; one must not commit adultery. He who commits this fascinating sin pollutes his life indelibly, destroys his happiness, sows ashes in his heart, and gathers the fruits of the Dead Sea and poison. One must not commit adultery. Ten years ago Beatrice Herz was so beautiful: I was so passionate! The intoxication that joined us and exalted was so incomparable! Ah, don't draw back, I beg of you; listen to me to the end. I don't wish to exalt error, but blame it; I wish not to raise up sin, but vilify it; I do not wish to tell to myself, now too late, what an abomination was that fraud, what a shame that betrayal; I only wish to cry out to others, unconscious, trusting blindly in themselves, what a death in love, what a death in life is adultery. We loved each other for a year, Beatrice and I; but for this year we threw away our youth, our happiness, our liberty. A year of sin, Signorina, is a year of servitude, of misery, of shame. Ah, I have never so much cursed and execrated my sin as when Lilian Temple appeared to me."

May Ford trembled, and started: her attention seemed more intense.

"Lilian! Lilian!" he exclaimed, rising, as if in a vision, as if holding out his arms to a phantom; "a creature of twenty, of rare beauty, all delicacy and grace; a loyal heart, proud and sweet, like a precious treasure opened for me; a loving, pure soul, a flower of freshness and virginity. Purity and candour, love and ardour together—Lilian! Lilian! To me this creature came full of every fascination; to me she came with her eyes that in their blueness opened to me the way of heaven, with her lips that smiled at me and called me, with hands that were stretched out to me laden with every gift, her beautiful hands that wished to give me everything, even the very hands themselves; to walk with her for ever, step by step, until death. Lilian! Lilian! You who came to me to be mine, you who were given to me by God, you who were mine—Lilian.... And I believed that I could deserve you, that I could have you; Lilian, whom I gathered that you might be my bride, my companion, my good—so I believed."

Like a child, Lucio Sabini threw himself on a sofa, his head buried in his arms, as he wept and sighed.

Miss May Ford rose and went to him, but without bending or touching him, she said anxiously:

"Why are you crying?"

He jumped up and raised his head, showing a face convulsed with grief and furrowed by tears.

"I weep because I have been deceived, because I am profoundly disillusioned; because I deceived an innocent girl, because I lied to myself, in suddenly believing myself free to love and be loved; because I erred, believing that there was still time to live, to live again—while it was too late."

"Too late?"

"Yes. Sin has devastated me; sin has reduced me to slavery. I am not worthy of freedom, of love—of Lilian."

"And what must dear Lilian do?" And at the adjective Miss Ford's voice trembled for an instant.

"She must forget me. She must! Tell her that I am too old for her at twenty; that I am as arid as pumice-stone; that I have neither youth, nor health, nor strength, nor joy to offer her beauty, her fascination, and her goodness; that I am no longer capable of love, or enthusiasm, or fidelity, or devotion. Tell her all that! She must forget me—she must. I am a ruined, devastated, dead being; nothing could arouse me. Tell her that! Let her forget me; let her forget the man who is undeserving of her, who has never deserved her; let her forget the being who has scorched his existence at every flame; let her forget the man who has neither faith, nor courage, nor hope—let her forget me. Tell her who I am and what I am. Tell her even worse things, that she may forget me."

"She will not believe me," replied Miss Ford slowly. "Thus she did not know you in the Engadine."

"The man of the Engadine was a phantom," again cried Lucio excitedly. "He was a phantom, another myself, Miss May; another—he of ten years ago—of once upon a time, a phantom that felt itself born again, living again, having form and substance, blood and nerves, being full of immense hope and certainty. In that wondrous land, and beside a wondrous creature, in the presence of an indescribable beauty of things and the perfect beauty of a girl, amidst the flatteries of light, and air, and flowers, of the fragrance, glances, and smiles of a dear lady, that phantom had to become a man again, had to be the man of formerly, strong in sentiment, strong in desire, strong in the new reason for his life. He had to be; he had to be! Who would not have cancelled ten years of sin and slavery in an hour, in a minute, up there amidst everything lofty and pure, white and proud, beside a soul so pure and ardent as Lilian's? Who would not have been another being? Who would not have honestly believed he was another being? She knew a phantom—tell her that! He has vanished, with every false, fleeting form of life, with all his hopes and desires. The wretched phantom vanished in a moment."

"When?"

"On the pier at Ostend, while your boat, as it cleaved the mist, bore you back to England."

Exhausted, frightened, he fell back on the sofa, and scarcely breathed. Standing silently and thoughtfully, Miss May Ford seemed to be waiting for the last words. He raised his head. The tears were dried on his flushed cheeks.

"Tell her to forget me," he resumed in a hard voice, "to fall in love with someone as young as she is, with an honest young Englishman, sane of spirit as she is; with a young Englishman, loving and pure as she is. Let her fall in love with this Englishman, and marry him."

"I do not know if she can do that, Signor Sabini."

"Do you believe that she will not succeed in forgetting me?" he asked, again in anguish.

"I do not know," she replied, shaking her head. "I do not know all the depths of her heart."

"Do you think she loves me very much? That she loves me too much?" he asked with emotion, taking her hands.

"I am ignorant as to how much she loves you. She has not told me. We don't discuss these things in England," added Miss Ford quickly.

"Six weeks together," he murmured thoughtfully, "only six weeks, and a girl of twenty. It is impossible for her to be too much in love with me."

"Let us hope so, if only we may hope so," replied Miss Ford.

"I hope so, I believe it; it must be so. Lilian must be loved by another; she must be happy with another, and forget her shadow of love in the Engadine, her phantom of the Engadine."

The colloquy was ended. The last words came from the lips of the quiet, good Englishwoman.

"Won't you now content my friend, Signor Sabini? Won't you give me a reply to her letter? To the letter I brought you to-day?"

Uncertainly and anxiously he took the letter which remained abandoned on the writing-table. With a rapid movement he tore open the envelope. It contained the following few words in English:

"My love; tell me if you ever loved me, if you still love me. I shall always love you.—LILIAN."

Lucio read aloud the few simple, frank words, the tender question, the deep promise. And all the amorous life of the Engadine reappeared to him, in all its most intimate and invincible attraction. His whole soul reeled, his heart broke.

"Tell her how much I loved her, Miss May; tell her how much I still love her; that far-away and all the time I shall always be hers. Tell her that; it is the truth. I have never deceived her. That is the answer, the only answer."

Thus he besought May Ford, with anxious eyes and trembling lips, in a cry that arose from the innermost depths of his heart, that the cry might reach even to Lilian.

"I can't tell her that," replied Miss Ford gravely, "I will not tell her that."

"But why not; if it be the truth? Why not?"

"If I tell her, Signor Sabini, she can never forget you, she will never cease to love you. She must never know that you love her."

"Indeed, indeed!" he replied sadly, "and how could she ever understand, she who is innocent, simple, and pure, that I can love her and yet fly from her; that I can love her and remain with Beatrice Herz? That is my inexorable condemnation—Lilian can never understand."

"Signor Sabini, tell me the only thing necessary for her to forget; something short and convincing that can turn Lilian."

Miss Ford sighed, as if she had talked too much and expressed too much.

"One thing only, then," said Lucio Sabini firmly. "You shall tell her simply that a woman has been mine for ten years, that she has loved me very much, and keeps me as if it were her life itself, and that if I left her she would die. I remain with her so that she may not die."

"Must I say that she would die?"

"You must say that. If Lucio Sabini were to desert Beatrice Herz she would kill herself."

"She would kill herself; very good."

Bowing composedly to Lucio, Miss May Ford turned her back and left with calm steps.

On the following day Lucio Sabini hovered round the precincts of the Savoy Hotel like a child, turning his back if he saw a carriage leaving or arriving, disappearing into a shop if he saw the omnibus full of travellers leaving, vanishing into an adjacent street whenever he saw a lady or two ladies leaving or entering. He did not see Miss May Ford either leave or enter at any time, and he dared not enter the vestibule of the hotel to ask if she had left, or were leaving soon. He ended by withdrawing, and almost flying from the neighbourhood of the hotel, where his soul indicated to him the presence of Lilian Temple. In the tepid, odoriferous hour of sunset, he went to the Cascine, drove, as every day, to the Viale Michelangelo, and at every carriage he met, in which from afar he seemed to perceive two ladies, he trembled, jumped up, and was about to tell his coachman to turn round. Those who greeted him in that sunset were not recognised by him; she for whom he had sacrificed Lilian Temple waited for him in vain towards half-past six, for the very short daily visit which he paid her to take the orders for the evening. At nine in the evening he was beneath the portico of the Florence railway station, hidden behind the farthest of the columns which support it, watching the arrival of the travellers' carriages and hotel omnibuses for the departure of the express to Bologna and Milan in connection with the Gothard train for France. It still wanted three-quarters of an hour; every five minutes he drew out his watch nervously. His eyes watched, in the obscurity, the corner of Santa Maria Novella, whence the carriages and omnibuses reach the station; at some moments his impatience had no bounds. However, he kept himself closely hidden behind the pillar with the collar of his overcoat raised, as if he were cold, and with the rim of his black hat lowered over his eyes; only his eyes lived ardently within him, through his scorched soul, which waited, invoked, and knew that Lilian was about to appear. Twice Miss Ford had denied Lilian's presence in Florence, but, like all Englishwomen who know not how to tell a lie, she had hesitated for a moment before pronouncing the lie. All Lucio's mind palpitated with the anxiety of waiting behind the pillar, because he was now sure that Lilian Temple would appear from one moment to another. Suddenly he felt himself wrapped in a double impetus of joy and sorrow, because Lilian Temple with Miss Ford had descended at fifty paces distance from him, from the omnibus of the Savoy Hotel. Seeing her, recognising and watching her, he heard a voice within him, speaking in his ear, as if a living being were speaking beside him, so much so that, frightened, he turned round as he heard the words, to seek whomsoever could have uttered them:

"Lilian loves you; you love her. Take her in your arms, and fly with her."

Step for step Lilian followed her friend and guardian, May Ford, who was seeing to the details of departure, while they exchanged neither a word nor a nod. From his hiding-place behind the pillar, Lucio saw Lilian's slender, fine figure outlined in her black travelling-dress, that he knew so well, the travelling-dress she had worn when they left the Engadine together for Berne and Basle. From his hiding-place he saw Lilian's blond head beneath her black hat with the white feather; but, owing to the distance, and the thick white veil she wore, as on that other journey when they left the Engadine, he could hardly make out her face. But neither in her hands nor at her waist was she carrying flowers as then: her hands weakly held a little travelling valise and a slender umbrella. But she had no flowers. Seeing this, Lucio heard, like a whisper in his ears, the voice again telling him:

"She is leaving; go with her."

The two English ladies now entered the long, narrow vestibule of the station, covered with glass, and disappeared from Lucio's eyes. He withdrew from the pillar, and began to follow them from a distance, as side by side, and without speaking, they went through the vestibule. From the distance it seemed to Lucio that now and then Lilian bowed her head on her breast; but he could not observe very well, owing to the crowd that came between them. Miss Ford bought a book and a paper from the bookstall; she was lost for a few moments as she chose them, while Lilian waited at a little distance, her face almost invisible behind her white veil, as she leaned with both her hands on the handle of her umbrella, as if she were tired. The ladies withdrew towards the first-class waiting-room; Lucio followed them, keeping his distance. They did not sit down, and he kept behind the glass door, as he peeped inside. Lilian Temple's deep silence, even if she liked silence, even if the two companions were gladly silent, overwhelmed him, as being the sign of something mysterious that kept her closed within herself, since she was now incapable of telling anything of what she felt to anyone.

The two ladies noticing the opening of the doors for departure, went out on to the platform, and proceeded to the train, which was to take them to Milan, and thence to Chiasso, France, and England. When Lucio Sabini saw that the train was about to start, and that the two ladies were looking for their places from carriage to carriage, quietly and with determination, to leave and vanish from him; when he understood that in a few minutes the dear young face would disappear in the shadow of the night, without her having seen him again, without his farewell; when he understood that she was going from him, spurned, refused, almost driven away by him, he trembled with sorrow, and almost with fear, for once again someone seemed to be speaking in his ear, but with an even more intense and mysterious voice:

"Don't let her leave alone; go with her."

Constrained by this sorrow, by the fear which the interior voice was inflicting on him, he hurried his steps, and almost ran to reach the two ladies. But a flow of people crossed his path; trucks full of luggage intervened. When he succeeded in surmounting the obstacles the two English ladies were already in their carriage. He halted at a little distance, where they could not see him, and observed that Lilian Temple was already seated behind the window. She was silent. She did not look at the bustle of the station, she gazed at nothing, she sought and expected no one. At last, beneath the great electric light, Lucio almost distinguished her face beneath the white veil. It was a composed face, with drooping eyes, but tearless, and perhaps without any expression of sadness; a closed mouth, without smiles, but firm and calm in its lines. A great chill froze Lucio's heart, and rooted him to the spot, as he thought:

"She does not suffer; she is resigned and tranquil."

He remained motionless as the doors were banged to and closed violently, while the orders for departure were transmitted briskly, and the locomotive whistled. Without stirring, he watched the train move, the carriage draw away where Lilian Temple sat, and the beloved face disappear behind the white veil. Then, in the suddenly empty station, when he was left alone, an immense bitterness invaded him, and bitterly he thought:

"She will forget me."

That other true voice of his conscience was silent and overcome.