The three friends looked at that lovely form, the gently inclined head, the rosy face, the streaming hair. But their triumph and arrogant delight had died within them. One went into the bed-room, fetched a coverlet, and covered the girl with it; and Christian was grateful to him for the action. Hastily they ate a few bites; the wine remained untouched. Then they went down, paid their reckoning, summoned their chauffeur, and drove through the night along the road to Rome. No one spoke during the drive; none of them ever mentioned Angiolina Pratti later. But Christian found it difficult to escape the picture in his mind--the fettered, drugged girl alone in the room with the roses and the yellow candle-light. But at last he forgot, for so many other images crowded the old one out. “But just now,” he said, “as we left the house, that image was as clear to me as it was that day in Acquapendente. I had to keep thinking of it, I don’t know why.” “How strange,” Ruth whispered. They walked on and on. “Where are we going?” Ruth asked. Christian looked at her. “What is so strange? That I told you about it? It really seemed superfluous, quite as though you knew it without being told.” “Yes,” she admitted shyly. “I often seem to stand within your soul as within a flame.” “It is brave of you to say a thing like that.” He disliked swelling words, but this thing moved him. “You must not be so ashamed,” she whispered. He answered: “If I could talk like other people, much would be spared me.” “Spared you? Would you be a niggard of yourself? Then it would no longer be you. That’s not the question. One should be a spendthrift of oneself--give oneself without stint or measure.” “Where have you learned to make such judgments, Ruth? To see and feel and know, and to have the courage of your vision?” “I’d like to tell you about something too,” said Ruth. “Yes, tell me something about yourself.” “About myself? I don’t think I can do that. But I will tell you about some one to whom I felt very close. It was a sister; no bodily sister, for I haven’t one. The reason I said ‘strange’ just now was because this Angiolina Pratti seemed like a sister to me too. Suddenly there seemed to be three sisters: Angiolina and I and the one I shall tell you about. It is a rather sad story. At least, it is at first. Afterwards it is no longer quite so sad. Oh, life is so wonderful and so deeply moving and so rich and so full of power!” “Ruth, little Ruth,” said Christian.