Soon every sound, even the faint sounds of Venice, grew fainter and vanished. Only the dip of the oar was heard, the water lapping, and the weird plaintive cry of the poppe as we approached a corner, “A-òel,” and “Sia stali” or “Sia premi” as we turned. We crept along old waterways where the oozy walls ground against the gondola on either side. Far, far up the narrow ribbon of ink-blue sky and the twinkling of stars looked down. Fiesole cuddled against me, like a contented tired child. I kept thinking of what she had said, “Have you ever wanted anything so badly that your whole body ached to get it?” I wondered if she had got that something now. When we returned to the hotel it was past midnight. The sharp tang of morning was in the air. Lights which had blazed across the lagoon, now smoldered like torches burnt to the socket. Venice floated, a fair Ophelia with eyes drowned and hair disordered; one saw her mistily as through water. Our gondola creaked against the landing, banged by the little waves. A poppe in a nearby barca groaned in his sleep and stirred. We were cramped with our long sitting. I gave Fiesole my arm; she shrank against me. At the door of her room I paused. “We’ve had one brilliant day to remember. You’re happy now?” “Very happy, dear Dante.” I entered my room and sat down in the dark on the side of the bed. I did not love her. I blundered my way over all the old arguments. I told myself that, since I could not marry Vi, I could not do better than marry Fiesole. But at the thought my soul rebelled--it was treachery. I tried to expel Vi’s image from my mind, but it refused to be expelled. I lived over again all the intoxicating pleasure of the day, but it was Vi who was my companion. I only drugged myself with Fiesole. She appealed to my imagination; her loveliness went like a strong wine to my head. In the next room all sounds of stirring had ceased. I looked up; greyhound clouds, long and lean, coursed in pursuit of stars across the moon. I tiptoed to the window. As I leant out, I heard a faint sighing. I caught the glint of copper-gold hair poured across the sill of the neighboring window. Fearing she might see me, I drew back. Why was it, I asked myself, that Fiesole was not my woman? What was the reason for this fantastic loyalty to Vi, who could never be mine? Was it instinct that held me back from Fiesole or mere cold-heartedness? For the next three days we wandered Venice, doing the usual round of churches and palaces. I was feverishly careful to live my life with Fiesole in public. I feared for her sake to be left alone with her. There was protection in spectators. She understood and accepted the situation, though we had not discussed it together. She played the part of a daring boy, carrying herself with merry independence. At times I almost forgot she was a girl. She disarmed my watchfulness, and seemed bent on showing me that it was unnecessary.