Pretexts, and even excuses, are seldom wanting for yielding to the impulse of the moment. Therefore I yielded to mine when I again found myself alone with Lorenzo, breaking a long silence which he did not notice, or would not ask the reason of, with a violent outburst I afterwards regretted, but which, at the moment, it seemed impossible to repress. “I have tried to please you, Lorenzo, and must still believe in your sincerity, which it would kill me to doubt; but I can no longer have any faith in the false, perfidious friendship of that woman.... My heart, my whole soul, revolts against her.... God forgive me, Lorenzo, I really believe I hate her, and feel as if I could never see her again!...” Such were a few of the hasty, incoherent words that escaped from my lips. Lorenzo, with folded arms, compressed brow, and a cold, ironical look of surprise, listened without interrupting me. As I gazed at him, I felt my impetuosity die away and give place to intolerable anguish. My heart swelled, and I should have burst out into sobs had not a certain pride hindered me from responding to the icy coldness of his smile with tears. He did not excuse himself, and by no means tried to defend her whom I thus attacked. He made neither protestations nor reproaches. “As you please, _cara mia_,” said he with a calmness that seemed a thousand times more cruel than anger. “I will not attempt to oppose the furious fit of jealousy I see you are in. Indulge in it at your leisure.... Nothing is easier than to find some excuse for not spending to‐morrow evening with Donna Faustina—and the day after, _ma belle Ginevra_,” continued he with a sarcastic look that was more marked than his words. “You seem to forget we are both going away, and very probably you will never see her again.... This is a reassuring circumstance, and ought to have sufficed, it seems to me, to prevent you from making so absurd a scene as this.” His manner and words completely disconcerted me. I now felt painfully mortified at my outburst, and an earnest desire to repair it. And yet the sensation caused by his injustice still raged in my heart. But I repressed this by degrees, and when Lorenzo was on the point of leaving the room, I said in a low tone: “Forgive me; I was too hasty. But I have suffered more than you may have supposed.” He made no reply, and his coldness restored my self‐control. “It is not necessary to seek any pretext to avoid meeting Donna Faustina,” continued I with a _sang‐froid_ nearly equal to his own. “Mme. de Kergy has invited me, and you also, to dine there to‐morrow, and pass the evening.” “Very well, go; nothing could be more fortunate. As for me, I shall not go with you. I have business I am obliged to finish before my departure. To‐ morrow I shall be absent all the morning, and shall not return in season to accompany you.”