ew so well. Her lips parted in a
half-sweet, half-chilly smile as she said, quietly:

"I owe you my thanks, conte, for showing me to what extent Signor
Ferrari's impertinence may reach. I am surprised at his writing to you
in such a manner! The fact is, my late husband's attachment for him was
so extreme that he now presumes upon a supposed right that he has over
me--he fancies I am really his sister, and that he can tyrannize, as
brothers sometimes do! I really regret I have been so patient with
him--I have allowed him too much liberty."

True enough! I thought and smiled bitterly. I was now in the heat of
the game--the moves must be played quickly--there was no more time for
hesitation or reflection.

"I think, madam," I said, deliberately, as I folded Guido's letter and
replaced it in my pocket-book, "Signor Ferrari ardently aspires to be
something more than a brother to you at no very distant date."

Oh, the splendid hypocrisy of women! No wonder they make such excellent
puppets on the theatrical stage--acting is their natural existence,
sham their breath of life! This creature showed no sign of
embarrassment--she raised her eyes frankly to mine in apparent
surprise--then she gave a little low laugh of disdain.

"Indeed!" she said. "Then I fear Signor Ferrari is doomed to have his
aspirations disappointed! My dear conte," and here she rose and swept
softly across the room toward me with that graceful gliding step that
somehow always reminded me of the approach of a panther, "do you really
mean to tell me that his audacity has reached such a height
that--really it is TOO absurd!--that he hopes to marry me?" And sinking
into a chair near mine she looked at me in calm inquiry. Lost in
amazement at the duplicity of the Vroman, I answered, briefly:

"I believe so! He intimated as much to me." She smiled scornfully.

"I am too much honored! And did you, conte, think for a moment that
such an arrangement would meet with my approval?"

I was silent. My brain was confused--I found it difficult to meet with
and confront such treachery as this. What! Had she no conscience? Were
all the passionate embraces, the lingering kisses, the vows of
fidelity, and words of caressing endearment as naught? Were they all
blotted from her memory as the writing on a slate is wiped out by a
sponge! Almost I pitied Guido! His fate, in her hands, was evidently to
be the same as mine had been; yet after all, why should I be surprised?
wh