Her whole nature shrank from this. She had come to realize intensely how to a woman the needs of the heart must ever stand first; how success, fame, intellectual achievements are mere stop-gaps, anæsthetics from which she is ever in danger of waking to a horrible, dreary reality--a sense that she is indispensable to no one, that no human being views her existence as the one supremely important fact in life. “Oh, we’re handicapped!--how we’re handicapped!” she cried to herself, as she sat motionless in the sunshine. “Physically, through our emotions--every way.... Wouldn’t it be better, saner, to spend the rest of my life with Dick, even though I _don’t_ feel for him anything of what I felt for Robert? At least he feels it for me. That’s something. At least I could make one creature happy.” Some one had come along the gravelled walk in front of the seat. She had not noticed his approach till she became conscious of a shadow between her and the sun, and saw with a vague astonishment its cause. A man was standing quite close in front of her, looking down upon her. Raising her eyes, she met Mayne’s. She struggled to her feet, feeling curiously as though lead weights were dragging her back. He held out his hand. “I didn’t know you were in Rome,” he said, briefly. “But you? I thought you were in town?”... “Yes. My old godfather is here. He’s dying, poor old chap, and he thought I was going to Africa. He begged me to come and say good-bye. He practically brought me up, you know, so I couldn’t----” He did not finish the sentence; his eyes were straying hungrily over her face. “Come! Let’s go up there,” he said, abruptly, nodding towards the upper terrace. Mechanically Cecily turned and walked at his side. They passed through the gate and up the steps, to that terrace which gives upon the beautiful avenue of ilexes leading to a further flight of moss-grown steps. The avenue was deserted. The rays of sunshine that pierced its roof fell in tiny flecks upon the path. But for these specks of brightness, the alley was a tunnel of cool green gloom. They entered it in silence. “Mrs. Summers said you were in Florence,” began Mayne, at last. “Yes, we’ve only been here a week. I haven’t written to Rose since we left.” He looked down at her. She was in white, as he liked best to see her. All the long months she had been away, he remembered, he had always pictured her in white. Her arm brushed his sleeve as they walked, and he trembled from head to foot. “Cecily,” he said, suddenly, and his voice trembled also, “what are you going to do?”