He broke in quickly. "Ah, that was different. That was only for the time being. This is for life. That was a whim, a condescension. Not to be taken seriously like marriage." "I took it seriously," her voice was quick with reproach. "I know you did, and I loved you for it, although it nearly broke my heart. To feel that you belonged to another man, that you had given yourself of your own free will was the most fearful hell I hope to ever have to undergo. But this is ten times worse. It isn't only that I am going to lose you forever, that is bad enough, God knows, but to know that you will be miserable, unhappy, completely out of your sphere. Ah, that is more than I can bear." She laid her hand upon his sleeve pleadingly. "But if I can bear it, if I feel that it is the right thing to do? Won't that help at all, Vittorio?" "But how can I know that you are not sacrificing yourself again? There is something mysterious about this. You are keeping something back, Anne." She turned from him with a hopeless shrug and leaned her elbows on the balustrade. "There's nothing mysterious about it, Vittorio. Alexis is alone in the world. He needs me and I am fond of him." He went towards her impulsively. "Fond of him! You call that love? Fond, is that a word to build a marriage upon?" "I'm only quoting you. Haven't you told me many times that love wasn't necessary to a happy marriage?" "If I did I was lying and you knew it, my Anne, or you would have taken me a dozen times over. And I was always patient because I felt that love would come to you finally. And lately, I was so happy, happier than for years. Your letters were so wonderful. I could hear you calling to me between the lines. I felt the time was rapidly approaching when you would awaken to your need of me. Oh, Anne, you're not a capricious woman. You couldn't have written to me like that just out of caprice. I feel I have the right to ask for an explanation." She turned towards him blindly as he leaned beside her on the parapet. Their groping hands met and clung. "You have a right to all I can tell you, Vittorio." Her fingers trembled in his strong clasp. "But there isn't much to say. When I wrote you I thought I was free. And--then he came--and I discovered that I had made a mistake. So I telegraphed to you not to come." The grasp upon her hand tightened nervously. "You mean you discovered that it was he and not I whom you loved after all?" "Perhaps," her voice came muffled. "But don't you know, dear heart?" The fingers in his fluttered. "Yes--I know." The words were almost inaudible. And he was forced to lean close in order to hear them at all. Then almost before she knew it, his arms were about her. His lips rained kisses upon her averted face. "Carissima, it is I whom you love. I, Vittorio! How many times shall I have to tell it to you?" The exultant voice deafened her. Giddy, on the point of defeat, she pushed him away with the palms of her hands, and fell into a chair.