Overhead in its blueness, was spread wide the “unattainable flower of the sky,” that Roman sky which blossoms like a flower of Paradise; and away to the right, as though floating in a blue ocean, stone pines lifted their islands of green, soft as velvet, into the clear air. Cecily was aware of all the beauty; she missed none of the thousand appeals to the senses; the warmth, the fragrance of growing flowers, the color, the richness. But her response was on the surface only. Beneath it, her whole mind was a prey to doubt and indecision; that state of consciousness which, out of the hundreds that can make of life a hell for damned souls, is as capable as any of inflicting torture. As Cecily passed through the iron gate leading into the garden of the villa, and mounted the upward sloping path between the ilexes, she would gladly have exchanged their mysterious darkness, the blue of the sky, the pathetic beauty of the moss-grown statue at the end of the path, the delicious sound of falling water, the flecks of sunshine on the gravelled walk, for a back street in Clapham--and peace of mind. At the top of the sharply zigzag path she paused by the barricade of monthly roses on the brow of the hill to take breath and gaze once more over the city at her feet. It was all inexpressibly beautiful, but she turned away, blinded with tears. She crossed the sunny square of garden in front of the villa and sat down on a marble seat, behind which a rose tree clambered. There were very few people about. One or two appeared from time to time behind the parapet of the terrace leading to the upper garden, and she could hear the voices of children in the ilex thickets below. But practically she was alone in the sunshine, and her thoughts were, as ever, busy with Mayne’s letter. What should she do? For the thousandth weary time she asked herself the same question. Did she, or did she not, love him? Passion for him she had none. Not for the first time she found herself wishing ardently that she had. At least it would simplify things; it would bring her to a decision. Then, she told herself, she would not hesitate. She reviewed the possible outcome of the situation. A legal separation--and Dick banished to Africa? She had seen enough of the life of a young woman living apart from her husband to make her view this consummation with disfavor. And in her case there was the added disadvantage of being to some extent a celebrity. She knew the sort of man she would constantly be obliged to repel, and the necessity for such a task sickened her. And life without Dick? Without his advice? Without the comforting sense of his protection and care? An empty life, childless, loveless, with none but intellectual needs to work for and gratify?