“You know what you said about Simonetta,” she whispered; “how you thought I was like her and you spent hours before _The Kingdom of Venus_. You were wrong, all wrong, Dante, in your thoughts about her. The young man in the picture was Giuliano dei Medici and Simonetta was dear to him for many years. So the flowers weren’t broken, Dannie. Instead of broken flowers, they made poetry for Botticelli to paint.” How could I tell her that there was a difference between love and passion?--that my feeling for her could be only passion, because my love was with Vi? She loved me--that made all her actions pure. Morality would sound like the rasping voice of a tired schoolmaster, scolding a classroom of healthy boys. It was even unsafe for me to pity her; when I drew my coat about her, she kissed my hand. I clasped her closely, gazing straight ahead, not daring to look down. Every quiver of her languorous body communicated itself. “Fiesole, if I don’t marry her, I will marry you some day. I promise.” “But I want you now--now--now.” Her whisper was sharp-edged with longing; it beat me down and ran out among the shadows like a darting blade. We floated under the Bridge of Sighs and drew up at the landing. She leant heavily on my arm. We walked along the quay in silence. Few people were about. I saw mistily; my eyes were burning as if they had gazed too long into a glowing furnace. She drooped against me like a crushed flower. “You’re breaking my heart, Fiesole. I’d give you anything, but the thing that would hurt you. Let me have time to consider.” I was saying to myself, “Perhaps it would be right to marry her.” But the memory of her whisper clamored insistently in my ears and prevented me from thinking, “_I want you now--now--now._” With her voice she made no reply. We entered the hotel and stole past the office; the porter was sleeping with his head bowed across his arms. On the dimly lit stairs she dragged on my arm, so that I halted. Suddenly she freed herself and broke from me, running on ahead. Standing still, almost hiding from her, I listened for her door to open and shut. Nothing stirred. I crept along the naked passage and found her leaning against the wall outside our rooms. Her head was thrown back in weariness, not in defiance; her arms were spread out helplessly; her hands, with palms inward, wandered blindly over the wall’s surface. She was panting like a hunted fawn. Her knees shook under her. Her attitude was horribly that of one who had been crucified. Made reckless by remorse, I bent over her and kissed her. Because I did not put my arms about her, she made no response. Something happened, wholly inexplicable, as though we had been joined by a third presence. Not a stair creaked. Everyone was in bed. The air was flooded with the slow, sweet smell of violets. I became aware of a palpitating sense of moral danger. I drew back from Fiesole. Her physical fascination faded from me; yet I had never felt more tender towards her.