oked over by any chance visitor. She would go one day, one evening, to
the restaurant and see what Emile had written. He would not mind. If she
had asked him that night of course he would have shown her the words.
But she had not asked him. She had been almost afraid of things that
night. She remembered how the wind had blown up the white table-cloth,
her cold, momentary shiver of fear, her relief when she had seen Gaspare
walking sturdily into the room.

And now, at once, this thought of Gaspare brought to her a sense of
relief again, of relief so great, so sharp--piercing down into the very
deep of her nature--that by it she was able to measure something, her
inward desolation at this moment. Yes, she clung to Gaspare, because he
was loyal, because he loved her, because he had loved Maurice--but also
because she was terribly alone.

Because he had loved Maurice! Had there been a time, really a time, when
she had possessed one who belonged utterly to her, who lived only in and
for her? Was that possible? To-day, with the fierceness of one starving,
she fastened upon this memory, her memory, hers only, shared by no one,
never shared by living or dead. That at least she had, and that could
never be taken from her. Even if Vere, her child, slipped from her,
if Emile, her friend, whose life she had saved, slipped from her, the
memory of her Sicilian was forever hers, the memory of his love, his joy
in their mutual life, his last kiss. Long ago she had taken that kiss as
a gift made to two--to her and to Vere unborn. To-day, almost savagely,
she took it to herself, alone, herself--alone. Hers it was, hers only,
no part of it Vere's.

That she had--her memory, and Gaspare's loyal, open-hearted devotion.
He knew what she had suffered. He loved her as he had loved his dead
Padrone. He would always protect her, put her first without hesitation,
conceal nothing from her that it was her right--for surely even the
humblest, the least selfish, the least grasping, surely all who love
have their rights--that it was her right to know.

Her cheeks were burning. She felt like one who had been making some
physical exertion.

Deeply silent was the house. Her room was full of shadows, yet full of
the hidden presence of the sun. There was a glory outside, against
which she was protected. But outside, and against assaults that were
inglorious, what protection had she? Her own personality must protect
her, her own will, the determination