“Nothing has happened. I’ve been thinking. That’s all.” “Thinking what? What have you been thinking?” “Thinking——————-” she began, as if she was about to answer; but then she made a teasing little face at me, and declaimed— “Oh, thinking, if you like, How utterly dissociated was I, A priest and celibate, from the sad strange wife Of Guido.” And she laughed. I threw up my hands in despair. “You’re hopeless,” I said. “It’s no good ever expecting you to be serious.” “I’m serious enough, in all conscience,” said she, “but I conceal it. I let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on my damask cheek. And so—I have plain days.” “I don’t believe you’ve ever had a plain day in your life,” asserted I. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world.” “I would beg you to observe that you’re sitting here and talking small-talk, after all,” she laughed, “That isn’t small-talk. It’s the solemn truth. But look here. I’m not going to let you evade the question. What have you been unhappy about?” “I’m not unhappy any more. So what does it matter?” “I want to know. Tell me.” “I’ve been puzzling over a dilemma,” she said, “an excessively perplexed one.” “Yes? Go on,” said I. “I’ve been wondering whether I’d better marry Ciccolesi, or retire into a convent.” “Ciccolesi!” I cried, in astonishment, in dismay. “Marry Ciccolesi! You!” “The Cavalière Ciccolesi. You’ve met him here on Mondays, A brown man, with curly hair. He’s done me the honour of offering me his hand. Would you advise me to accept it?” “Accept it?” I cried. “Good Lord! You must be—have you lost your reason? Ciccolesi—that automaton—that cardboard stalking-horse—that Neapolitan jackanapes! You—think of marrying him!” I could only walk up and down the room and wave my hands. “Ah, well,” said she, “then I see there’s nothing for it but the other alternative—to retire into a convent.” I halted and stared at her. “What—what on earth has happened to make you talk like this?” I demanded, in a sort of gasp. “I’ve been reflecting upon the futility of my life,” she said. “I get up in the morning, and eat my breakfast. Then I fritter away an hour or two, and eat my luncheon. Then I fritter away the afternoon, and eat my dinner. Then I fritter away the evening, and go to bed. I live, apparently, to eat and sleep, like the beasts that perish. We must reform all that. I must do something to make myself of use in the world. And since you seem disinclined to sanction a marriage with Ciccolesi, what do you say to my joining some charitable sisterhood?” She spoke lightly, even, if you will, half-jocosely. But there was a real bitterness unmistakable behind her tone. There was a bitterness in her smile.