She bade her friends good night in the hall of the inn and ran upstairs to her room. She was rather glad to have disagreed with Lionel and set her own opinion before his, and she felt angry with him, indignant, and almost wounded, that he should have given such an opinion. She felt it almost to be something against herself. She hurried up to her own room, to finish her packing, she said. She had taken out her white dress to wear that evening, and had now to put it back, to resume her travelling-garments. It was their last night in Italy; next evening they would be at sea, seeing the sun set in the Mediterranean. It was a warm night, and her mind was far too restless and busy for sleep. When she had put away her dress, and arranged all her possessions in order, she went to the open window and sat down there, looking out at the moon. The room was high up near the skies, and she had all the firmament to herself, nothing to disturb its calm except the old belfry of a convent with its little tinkling bell, which was always in movement all day long, but which seemed to have gone to bed along with the peaceful sisters and their pupils. This little belfry stood out against the deep blue of the sky, which lined out every little curve and corner, but all was quiet in and about it, its shrill tongue still till morning. All was quiet; the room looked out to the back of the house, and not an echo of the street reached Lydia in her retirement. She felt, half with the giddiness of her excited condition, half with the expectation of to-morrow, as if she were sailing upon a sea of space, floating between the earth and sky; and as she sat there so still, her candles burning in the background unnoticed, sedately awaiting her leisure, and the soft night blowing in upon her with a breath of the sea in it, a perfect crowd and storm of thoughts burst on Lydia in the quiet. She thought, you would suppose, of what she had been doing to-night, of the curious questions about Isaac Oliver, and the examination to which the Vice-Consul had subjected her, and all the novelty of this story into which she had been thrust head and shoulders without any will of her own; but, to tell the truth, Lydia thought nothing about this at all, at first. She thought of to-morrow, of the tide of movement which would sweep her away, of leaning over the bulwark and seeing the long trail of the water gliding under the ship, and of what might be said to her there. Sir John would be safely installed in the deck-cabin, which had always to be secured for him, and Lady Brotherton would stretch herself out on a sofa and close her eyes, in preparation for being ill. And then: what would be said? She wove a great many imaginary conversations that came to nothing. Why should they come to anything? He would tell her--what he was going to do in town; that he hoped she would enjoy going home; something commonplace, ordinary--or else he would say