d her, contrasting with the black gloom
outside, restored her spirits. She felt herself enjoying the light
like a child!

Would it be well (she asked herself) to get ready for bed? No! The
sense of drowsy fatigue that she had felt half an hour since was gone.
She returned to the dull employment of unpacking her boxes. After a
few minutes only, the occupation became irksome to her once more. She
sat down by the table, and took up a guide-book. 'Suppose I inform
myself,' she thought, 'on the subject of Venice?'

Her attention wandered from the book, before she had turned the first
page of it.

The image of Henry Westwick was the presiding image in her memory now.
Recalling the minutest incidents and details of the evening, she could
think of nothing which presented him under other than a favourable and
interesting aspect. She smiled to herself softly, her colour rose by
fine gradations, as she felt the full luxury of dwelling on the perfect
truth and modesty of his devotion to her. Was the depression of
spirits from which she had suffered so persistently on her travels
attributable, by any chance, to their long separation from each
other--embittered perhaps by her own vain regret when she remembered
her harsh reception of him in Paris? Suddenly conscious of this bold
question, and of the self-abandonment which it implied, she returned
mechanically to her book, distrusting the unrestrained liberty of her
own thoughts. What lurking temptations to forbidden tenderness find
their hiding-places in a woman's dressing-gown, when she is alone in
her room at night! With her heart in the tomb of the dead Montbarry,
could Agnes even think of another man, and think of love? How
shameful! how unworthy of her! For the second time, she tried to
interest herself in the guide-book--and once more she tried in vain.
Throwing the book aside, she turned desperately to the one resource
that was left, to her luggage--resolved to fatigue herself without
mercy, until she was weary enough and sleepy enough to find a safe
refuge in bed.

For some little time, she persisted in the monotonous occupation of
transferring her clothes from her trunk to the wardrobe. The large
clock in the hall, striking mid-night, reminded her that it was getting
late. She sat down for a moment in an arm-chair by the bedside, to
rest.

The silence in the house now caught her attention, and held it--held it
disagreeably. Was everybody in bed and asleep but herself?