"William, I want to tell you something--for I can't go on lying to you--or even just hiding the truth. I met Geoffrey Cliffe here--before you left--and I never told you. I saw him first in a gondola the night of the serenata--and then at the Armenian convent. Do you remember my hurrying you and Margaret into the garden? That was to escape meeting him. And that same afternoon when I was in the unused rooms of the Palazzo Vercelli--the rooms they show to tourists--he suddenly appeared--and somehow I spoke to him, though I had never meant to do so again. "Then when you left me I met him again--that afternoon--and he found out I was very miserable and made me tell him everything. I know I had no right to do so--they were your secrets as well as mine. But you know how little I can control myself--it's wretched, but it's true. "William, I don't know what will happen. I can't make out from Margaret whether she has written to you or not--she won't tell me. If she has, this letter will not be much news to you. But, mind, I write it of my own free will, and not because Margaret may have forced my hand. I should have written it anyway. Poor old darling!--she thinks me mad and bad, and to-night she tells me she can't take the responsibility of looking after me any longer. Women like her can never understand creatures like me--and I don't want her to. She's a dear saint, and as true as steel--not like your Mary Lysters! I could go on my knees to her. But she can't control or save me. Not even you could, William. You've tried your best, and in spite of you I'm going to perdition, and I can't stop myself. "For, William, there's something broken forever between you and me. I know it was I who did the wrong, and that you had no choice but to leave me when you did. But yet you _did_ leave me, though I implored you not. And I know very well that you don't love me as you used to--why should you?--and that you never can love me in the same way again. Every letter you write tells me that. And though I have deserved it all, I can't bear it. When I think of coming home to England, and how you would try to be nice to me--how good and dear and magnanimous you would be, and what a beast I should feel--I want to drown myself and have done.