It was still long before noon when Signor Oriole and his charge arrived in London. Some little conversation they had had on the journey on the most prosaic, matter-of-fact details, as to where they should go, and when, and how. They had decided upon travelling by train to Naples, and thence taking the steamer to Catania, a little to the north of which lay the small estate which had come to Signor Giuseppe. They were to stay in London for the rest of the day, and for that night. It was with some little difficulty that he persuaded Fulvia to do this; her wide-open eyes betrayed no look of drowsiness, and he at least could see the expression of suspense and restrained excitement on her face. She had told him nothing of what had finally driven her to him, and made her so firmly bent on escaping from her husband’s house, from West Wall--yea, even from England. When he suggested the rest in London a blank look came over her face. ‘Could we not take the tidal train to Calais to-night?’ she asked imploringly. ‘We certainly could, but I do not wish either you or myself to break down on the journey,’ he said; ‘and, mia cara, if you will let me sleep for a few hours, I am at your service.’ ‘Oh, forgive me, padre mio! Do not let us speak of it again. We will stay here all night and leave to-morrow morning.’ Thus it was arranged. Signor Giuseppe employed part of the day in certain business transactions with his bankers, and in laying in a stock of some travelling requisites whose very existence Fulvia appeared to have forgotten. She went with him everywhere; she seemed nervous and afraid to be left alone in the hotel, and told him she could not possibly sleep, even if she tried to do so. He let her have her way, and the long day wore on, and he insisted upon her going to bed early and trying to sleep. Their rooms were next door to one another, and he promised that when she was in bed he would go and say good-night to her. She presently called him through the door which joined the rooms. He wondered whether she would tell him now, as he went into the room and saw her lying still and white-looking, still with those eyes so painfully wide open. But Fulvia did not speak on that subject. She held his hand for awhile, as he sat beside her bed, and looked at him, and said: ‘I don’t think I shall go to sleep. I wish I had gone to a doctor and asked for a sleeping-draught. Promise not to shut that door, will you?’ ‘Certainly, darling. It shall be open all night,’ he assured her, and in a few minutes, to his profound relief, he saw the eyelids, heavy and purple with grief and long vigil, fall. Once or twice she raised them again. Once she pressed his hand, and carried it to her lips. Then the clasp of her fingers upon his gradually relaxed. By-and-by he saw that Fulvia slept--a natural sleep. ‘Thank God!’ he said to himself. ‘I should have been afraid to leave London if I had known she had had no rest.’