He shook his head and opened a book, but she crossed to his side and laid her hand upon his shoulder. "It may not be for long," she said. "If I am successful--" He flinched from her touch and shook her hand off almost fiercely. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips white. "The room is so warm," he said, "it makes me dizzy. I'll go out." And he went down-stairs. Mariana stood where he had left her and looked down upon the pile of unpacked garments. A tear glistened upon her lashes, but it was a tear of impersonal sorrow and regret. For herself she was conscious only of a dulness of sensation, as if her usually vital emotions had been blunted and rendered ineffectual. In a mute way, as she stood there, she realized an almost tragic pity, but it was purely mental, and she recalled calmly the fact that a separation, which six months ago would have seared her soul with agony, she was now accepting with a feeling that was one of relief. The stress of accumulated griefs and anxieties had crushed her impressionable nature past all resemblance to its former responsiveness. Yet it is possible that even then, had Anthony returned to overpower her with his appeal, she would have wavered in her decision, but the wavering would have been the result of a fight between the instincts which were virile and the memory of the instincts which were buried with her buried passions, and it is doubtful where the victory would have rested. Her impulse for flight was as keen as the impulse which causes a bird to beat its breast against the bars that hold it. She wanted to flee from the sorrow she had known and all its associations; she wanted to flee from poverty and ugliness to beauty and bright colors. The artistic genius of her nature was calling, calling, and she thrilled into an answering echo. But, for all that, a tear glistened upon her lashes as she looked down upon the unpacked clothes. "O God! if you would only make a miracle!" she said--"if you only would!" Her glance fell upon the desk where Anthony's work was lying. She saw the freshly written page upon which the ink was not dry. She lifted the pen in her fingers and felt the thick cork handle which was stained and indented by constant use. She sighed and turned slowly away. The next afternoon, in hat and veil, with a small black satchel in her hand, she stood waiting for Signor Morani. Her trunk had already been carried down, and the carriage was turning the corner. She spoke lightly, dreading silence and dreading an accent of seriousness. "It is cooler," she said. "I hope a change is coming." Then, as the carriage stopped beside the pavement below, she held out her hands. They shook slightly. "Good-bye," she said. "I hope you will be happy." "And you. It will be easier for you." "Good-bye." She raised her veil, her eyes shining. "Kiss me." He kissed her, but his lips were cold, and there was no pressure upon hers.