Theodore's mind was in a strange state when he left Bianchi's house. As soon as he felt the cool air breathe upon his face, the feeling of depression which so weighed upon him, as he stood before the model, left him at once. Even the secret remorse in the background of his thoughts almost served to intensify his mental clearness, as the shadow does the light. The former of the two girls passed before his mind's eye, and his heart never faltered for a moment. Yet it was unjust towards the stranger--a feeling of wonder struck through it still, when it recollected all the beauties of that marvellous face. But it beat high and fiercely, when it recollected the time of his first knowing and loving, of his growing passion for Mary. And what had changed in the interim? Had she not remained the same? Truly, delicacy and a feeling of propriety had restrained her in the presence of others. But she had told him, with all the ever-increasing intensity of her whole being--with her eyes, which never moved from him as long as he was near her; with her hands, that were so loth to leave his when he went, that she had utterly and unrestrictedly abandoned her whole existence to him. "Can I blame in her," he said to himself, "that she sits in awe of her puritanical mother--that she did not break this old bond of reverence at the same moment that she bound herself to me?" As if he had to confess to her all with which he had these weeks long made his life miserable, he felt constrained to see her. He knew that the English visitors, who had annoyed him so, had left Rome the day before. He felt as if all was now to begin anew. In this state of freshly-awakened happiness he sprang up the steps of the house. But a few moments before, Miss Betsy had been standing in Mary's chamber, about to take her leave. The girl was seated by the piano, in the shade, with her hands grasping the arms of her chair, as if afraid that she should sink down upon the floor, if she did not support herself.