“I am a madman,” he admitted abjectly--“a little animal that ought to be shot. I don't know what came over me; my head was in a carnival. You must forgive or I shall be a maniac, I----” She turned and walked swiftly into the house and mounted to her room. All the pleasure she had had in the evening, the Viennese gown, evaporated, left her possessed by an utter loathing of self. Now, in the mirror, she seemed hateful, the clouded chiffon and airy clinging satin unspeakable. Looking back out of the dim glass was a stranger who had betrayed and cheapened her. Her pure serenity revolted against the currents of life sweeping down upon her, threatening to inundate her. She unhooked the Verlat gown with trembling fingers and--once more in simple white--dropped into a deep chair, where she cried with short painful inspirations, her face pressed against her arm. Her emotion subsided, changed to a formless dread, and again to a black sense of helplessness. Suddenly she rose and mechanically shook loose her hair--footsteps were approaching. Her sister entered, pale and vindictive. “You are to be congratulated,” she proceeded thinly; “you made a success with everybody--that is, with all but Mochales. It was for him, wasn't it? You were very clever, but you failed ridiculously.” Lavinia made no reply. “I hope Mochales excuses you because of your greenness.” “Youth isn't any longer your crime,” Lavinia retorted at last. “That dress--it would suit Anna Mantegazza; but you looked only indecent.” “Perhaps you're right, Gheta,” Lavinia said unexpectedly. “I'm going to bed now, please.” Her balance, restored by sleep, was once more normal when she returned to the Lungarno. It was again late afternoon, the daily procession was returning from the Cascine, and Gheta was at the window, looking coldly down. The Marchesa Sanviano was knitting at prodigious speed a shapeless gray garment. They all turned when a servant entered: Signer Orsi wished to see the marchese. This unusual formality on the part of Cesare Orsi could have but one purpose, and Lavinia and their mother gazed significantly at the elder sister. “The marchese is dressing,” his wife directed. She drew a long breath of relief and nodded over her needles. Gheta raised her chin; her lips bore the half-contemptuous expression that lately had become habitual; her eyes were half closed. Lavinia sat with her hands loose in her lap. She was wondering whether or not, should she make a vigorous protest, they would send her back to the convent. The Verlat gown was carefully hung in her closet. Last night she had been idiotic. The Marchese Sanviano appeared hurriedly and alone; his tie was crooked and his expression very much disturbed. His wife looked up, startled. “What!” she demanded directly. “Didn't he----” “Yes,” Sanviano replied, “he did! He wants to marry Lavinia.”