She was silent, and he saw the color go from her face. They had reached the foot of the crumbling steps by this time. Cecily noticed minutely the ferns--hart’s-tongue and maiden-hair--that sprang in chink and crevice, and, as she passed it, looked curiously at the pattern of spotted white lichen with which each broken step was adorned. Now they had emerged from the gloom of the roof of trees, into the blinding sunshine in which the little sham-classic temple at the top was bathed. There was no one in the walled-in enclosure. Cecily moved to the side overlooking the Borghese Gardens, and sat down on the rough, sun-warmed wall. Mayne stood behind her. “Cecily,” he urged once more, “you mustn’t keep me in suspense much longer.” There was a dangerous note in his voice. She turned to him. “Oh, Dick!” she said in a voice that was almost a cry; “I am so worried. If only I knew what to do!” He stooped swiftly, and gathering her up in his arms, held her close, while he kissed first her lips, then her throat, with an intensity of passion which thrilled and communicated itself to her. When at last he let her go, she too was trembling. After all, it was sweet to be loved like this. She felt awakening in her the woman’s pride and triumph in her power to rouse strong emotion in a man. And Dick loved her in all the other ways, too. She could rely on him. He would never fail her. Her lips moved. She meant to yield at once--to give him his answer now, irrevocably. Instead, she said, faintly, “I’ll write--to-night. Where are you staying?” He looked at her entreatingly a moment; then, feeling in his pocket for a note-book, he scribbled an address on a leaf torn from it. “Cecily!” he whispered as he gave it to her. “Cecily!” Mechanically, as though urged by some force outside herself, Cecily got up, and began to descend the steps. He followed her. They walked back through the gloomy avenue in silence. Just before they reached the terrace, he took her ungloved hand and put it to his lips. “Will you let me go back alone?” she asked, under her breath. “You wish it?” “Yes, dear.” He stepped back to let her pass, and as she did so, she looked up at him with appealing eyes. “I will write to-night, Dick,” she said, very gently. * * * * * She left him standing on the terrace, and found her way back through the lower garden, down the Scala di Spagna, across the Piazza to the hotel. Everything stood bathed in sunshine as in a dream. She had a sense that all the people she passed were dream-figures. Everything had become all at once unsubstantial, unreal, shadows of something else. When she reached the hotel the hall porter put a packet of letters into her hand. Most of them had been forwarded from Florence, as she noticed in turning them over on her way up to her room. One of them was from Rose.