fire, and keep constant to
it; but you have some vile Romance of Chivalry in your head; a modern
sculptor's figure, 'MEDITATION;' that is the sort of bride you would give
him in the stirring days of Italy. Do you think it is only a statue that
can be true? Perceive--will you not--that this Lieutenant Pierson is your
enemy. He tells you as much; surely the challenge is fair? Defeat him as
you best can. Angelo shall not be abandoned."

"O me! it is unendurable; you are merciless," said Vittoria, shuddering.

She saw the vile figure of herself aping smirks and tender meanings to
her old lover. It was a picture that she dared not let her mind rest on:
how then could she personate it? All through her life she had been frank;
as a young woman, she was clear of soul; she felt that her, simplicity
was already soiled by the bare comprehension of the abominable course
indicated by Laura. Degradation seemed to have been a thing up to this
moment only dreamed of; but now that it was demanded of her to play
coquette and trick her womanhood with false allurements, she knew the
sentiment of utter ruin; she was ashamed. No word is more lightly spoken
than shame. Vittoria's early devotion to her Art, and subsequently to her
Italy, had carried her through the term when she would otherwise have
showed the natural mild attack of the disease. It came on her now in a
rush, penetrating every chamber of her heart, overwhelming her; she could
see no distinction between being ever so little false and altogether
despicable. She had loathings of her body and her life. With grovelling
difficulty of speech she endeavoured to convey the sense of her
repugnance to Laura, who leaned her ear, wondering at such bluntness of
wit in a woman, and said, "Are you quite deficient in the craft of your
sex, child? You can, and you will, guard yourself ten times better when
your aim is simply to subject him." But this was not reason to a spirit
writhing in the serpent-coil of fiery blushes.

Vittoria said, "I shall pity him so."

She meant she would pity Wilfrid in deluding him. It was a taint of the
hypocrisy which comes with shame.

The signora retorted: "I can't follow the action of your mind a bit."

Pity being a form of tenderness, Laura supposed that she would
intuitively hate the man who compelled her to do what she abhorred.

They spent the greater portion of the night in this debate.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE ESCAPE OF ANGELO

Vittoria knew