“You cannot know the world as I do, dear Lucilla,” continued Godolphin; “for experience in its affairs is bought at some little expense, which I pray that it may never cost you. In all countries, Lucilla, an unmarried female is exposed to dangers which, without any actual fault of her own, may embitter her future life. One of the greatest of these dangers lies in deviating from custom. With the woman who does this, every man thinks himself entitled to give his thoughts--his words--nay, even his actions, a license which you cannot but dread to incur. Your uncle and aunt, therefore, do right to advise your not going alone, to the public streets of Rome more especially, except in the broad daylight; and though their advice be irksomely intruded, and ungracefully couched, it is good in its principle, and--yes, dearest Lucilla, even necessary for you to follow.” “But,” said Lucilla, through her tears, “you cannot guess what insults, what unkindness, I have been forced to submit to from them. I, who never knew, till now, what insult and unkindness were! I, who----” here sobs checked her utterance. “But how, my young and fair friend, how can you mend their manners by destroying their esteem for you? Respect yourself, Lucilla, if you wish others to respect you. But, perhaps,”--and such a thought for the first time flashed across Godolphin--“perhaps you did not seek the Corso for the _crowd_ but for _one;_ perhaps you went there to meet--dare I guess the fact?--an admirer, a lover.” “Now _you_ insult me!” cried Lucilla, angrily. “I thank you for your anger; I accept it as a contradiction,” said Godolphin. “But listen yet a while, and forgive frankness. If there be any one, among the throng of Italian youths, whom you have seen, and could be happy with; one who loves you and whom you do not hate;--remember that I am your father’s friend; that I am rich; that I can----” “Cruel, cruel!” interrupted Lucilla and withdrawing herself from Godolphin, she walked to and fro with great and struggling agitation. “Is it not so, then?” said Godolphin, doubtingly. “No, sir: no!” “Lucilla Volktman,” said Godolphin, with a colder gravity than he had yet called forth, “I claim some attention from you, some confidence, nay, some esteem;--for the sake of your father--for the sake of your early years, when I assisted to teach you my native tongue, and loved you as a brother. Promise me that you will not commit this indiscretion any more--at least till we meet again; nay, that you will not stir abroad, save with one of your relations.” “Impossible! impossible!” cried Lucilla, vehemently; “it were to take away the only solace I have: it were to make life a privation--a curse.” “Not so, Lucilla; it is to make life respectable and safe. I, on the other hand, will engage that all within these walls shall behave to you with indulgence and kindness.” “I care not for their kindness!--for the kindness of any one; save----”