one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor
condemned him; she did not pass judgment. At the moment when she was
about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since,
it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even
now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall;
Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor
inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed,
for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented
to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which
the young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced
world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not
seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.

Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet
discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of
her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten.
Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and
precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon
the soul.

The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached
them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,
though she saw some one standing in the wet below, he, though he looked
up, did not see her.

To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck
her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would
be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was
over.

Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the
critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:

"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please."

Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr.
Emerson."

His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her
work.

Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to be
muddled. I want to grow older quickly."

Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.

"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."

In the morning they left for Rome.

Part Two

Chapter VIII: Medieval

The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for
the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. The