I did not broach the subject again, however, but walked straight to the hotel, where we bade each other _buona notte_. We met daily, and I, most prosaic of bachelors, found myself thinking of her every moment. Though in a dejected, perplexed mood, I felt utterly happy when at her side; for had she not given me words of hope for the future, and in these was a certain amount of consolation, however slight. Our clandestine meetings were so skilfully arranged as to keep the ever-grumbling Hertzen in entire ignorance, and Vera admitted such expeditions were her happiest hours. One evening, a fortnight afterwards, we had driven to Pegli, a quaint old fishing village four miles from Genoa. It was a gorgeous sunset, the sea a glittering expanse of blue and gold stretching out toward the descending sky, with nothing to fleck its surface but the gleam of a white sail or two; and as we walked together, close to the lapping waves, I fancied she looked a trifle wan and anxious. At first I took no heed of it, but presently her agitation became so apparent that I asked whether she were well. "Yes, well enough in health," she sighed, "but very unhappy." "Why, how is that?" I asked in concern. "Ah! Frank," she said, with her eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the ground, "I must not tell you all, so you cannot understand but I am one of those born to unhappiness." "Tell me something of this sorrow, that I may sympathise with you," I said, looking into her eyes. "If it is in my power to help you I will do so willingly." "Ah! if you would?" she exclaimed wistfully, her face brightening at a suggestion which appeared to flash across her mind. "There is indeed one way by which you might render me a service, but it is impossible. I am afraid the commission is too great for you to undertake." "I am ready to serve you in any way, Vera. If a test of my devotion is required, I'm prepared for the ordeal," I replied seriously. She halted, and gazing into my face with eyes brimming with tears, said: "Believe me, I am in sore need of a friend. I will tell you something of my trouble, but do not ask for further explanations now, as I cannot give them. The man whom you know as my uncle holds me in his power. He is harsh, cruel, and--and--" "_He is your husband_!" I interrupted in a low voice, for somehow I felt convinced that such was the case. "No! no!" she cried hoarsely; "no, I swear that is not so. He is neither husband, nor even friend. Though my uncle, he is unworthy the name of relation. I am unfortunately in his thrall, and dare not disobey his will. To do so would mean--" "What?--tell me." "Impossible. The longer I live the more I learn to hate his presence. Ah, if you could but know!" There was an intensity of bitterness in that utterance, a flash in her clear dark eyes that spoke of a fierce passion. Could it be hatred?