r; even brought
himself, when he was far enough away from Roma, to the length of
suggesting an operation. The doctors shook their heads. At last he bowed
his own head. His bride-wife must leave him. He must live on without
her.

Meantime Roma was cheerful, and at moments even gay. Her gaiety was
heart-breaking. Blinding bouts of headache were her besetting trouble,
but only by the moist red eyes did any one know anything about that.
When people asked her how she felt, she told them whatever she thought
they wished to hear. It brought a look of relief to their faces, and
that made her very happy.

With Rossi, during these ten days, she had carried on the fiction that
she was getting better. This was to break the news to him, and he on his
part, to break the news to her, had pretended to believe the story. They
made Elena help the little artifice, and even engaged the doctors in
their mutual deception.

"And how is my darling to-day?"

"Splendid! There's really nothing to do with me. It's true I have
suffered. That's why I look so pale. But I'm better now. Elena will tell
you how well I slept last night. Didn't I sleep well, Elena? Elena....
Poor Elena is going a little deaf and doesn't always speak when she is
spoken to. But I'm all right, David. In fact, I'll feel no pain at all
before long, and then I shall be well."

"Yes, dear, you'll feel no pain at all before long, and then you'll be
well."

It was pitiful. All their words seemed to be laden with double meanings.
They could find none that were not.

But the time had come when Roma resolved she must speak plainly. Rossi
had lifted her into the loggia. He did so every day, carrying her, not
on his arm as a woman carries a child, but against his breast, as a man
carries his wife when he loves her. She always put her arms around his
neck, pretending it was necessary for her safety, and when he had laid
her gently in the bed-chair she pulled down his head and kissed him. The
two little journeys were the delight of the day to Roma, but to Rossi
they were a deepening trouble.

It was the sweetest day of the sweet Roman spring, and Roma wore a light
tea-gown with a coil of white silk about her head such as is seen in the
portraits of Beatrice Cenci. The golden complexion was quite gone, there
was a hard line along the cheek, a deep shadow under the chin, the
nostrils were pinched and the mouth was drawn. But the large eyes,
though heavy with pain, were full of j