her pulse the longing for revenge grew wilder and stronger.

She had left the house with one first idea--to find Paul Griggs and tell
him what had happened. No other thought crossed her mind, and her steps
turned mechanically down the Corso, for he still lived in his two rooms
in the Via della Frezza.

It was early still. People dined at six o'clock in those days, and it
was not yet eight when Gloria found herself in the street. It was quiet,
though there were many people moving about. During the hours between
dinner and the theatre there were hardly any carriages out, and the
sound of many footsteps and of many low voices filled the air. Gloria
kept to the right and walked swiftly along, never turning her head. She
had never been out in the streets alone at night in her life, and even
in her anger she felt a sort of intoxication of freedom that was quite
new to her, a beginning of satisfaction upon him who had injured her.
There was Highland blood in her veins, as well as Italian passion.

The southeast wind was blowing down the street behind her, that same
strange and tragic wind, tragic and passionate, that had blown so
gustily down upon Subiaco from the mountains, on that night long ago
when Maria Addolorata had stood aside by the garden gate to let
Dalrymple pass, bearing something in his arms. Gloria knew it by its sad
whisper and by the faint taste of it and smell of it, through her
close-drawn veil.

On she went, down the Corso, till she came to the Piazza Colonna, and
saw far on her left, beyond the huge black shaft of the column, the
brilliant lights from the French officers' Club. She hesitated then, and
slackened her speed a little. The sight of the Club reminded her of
society, of what she was doing, and of what it might mean. As she walked
more slowly, the wind gained upon her, as it were, from behind, and
tried to drive her on. It seemed to be driving her from her husband's
house with all its might, blowing her skirts before her and her thick
veil. She passed the square, keeping close to the shutters of the shops
under the Palazzo Piombino--gone now, to widen the open space. A gust,
stronger than any she had felt yet, swept down the pavement. She paused
a moment, leaning against the closed shutters of the clockmaker Ricci,
whose shop used to be a sort of landmark in the Corso. Just then a clock
within struck eight strokes. She heard them all distinctly through the
shutters.

She hesitated an instant.