“The fever which proved fatal to this amorous gentleman in Rome was caused by exposure to the treacherous chill of that city in the early hours of the morning when, I am told, even a strong man’s vitality is at its lowest; and the contrast between a warm place and the cold streets towards a hotel is sometimes more than the human constitution will bear. It has been my part to have had to sit and listen to his praises by the hour, and at his name I have had to endure seeing tears spring to the eyes of a noble and beautiful lady. With her I have stood by his grave, and on it I have emptied the contents of Solomon’s windows. I have sat close beside her, and longed to touch her hand, to kiss her hair, to express even the surface of my passion--I have known that, perhaps, in happier circumstances, she might not have pushed away my hand nor denied my kiss--and I have also known that she would not allow herself for one second to deviate from the path she had set herself, the path of self-sacrifice to the memory of a man who, I knew, had never spent a moment of his life in thinking about her. Have some brandy. “It may seem strange to you, Lord Tarlyon, and to you, Mr. Trevor, that I should confide in you with so little restraint. But, as I told you in throwing myself upon your kind attention, I lack the breeding which could alone give me an instinctive direction in such a matter. I need guidance, Lord Tarlyon. I am in a damnable case; and in the last few weeks I have been seeking refuge from a position which becomes more insupportable every moment--and the more so, you understand, because I can see I am not altogether distasteful to the lady--in wondering whether, in some recess in the code of honour, there is no decent way out of this damnable lie. That in particular is why, Lord Tarlyon, I was so anxious to see you, and to put the matter before you. Is there, for a man of honour, no way out of a mess like this? Is it utterly impossible for me to shatter her illusions about her late--her extremely late, in his nightly habits--husband? Is there nothing I can do but look sulky every time the man’s name is mentioned? But I have tried that, and I am afraid she takes it as the expression of a sympathy too deep for words. What can I do, Lord Tarlyon? Or perhaps you, Mr. Trevor, can suggest some way out? Have some brandy.” A silence fell on us a while. At last I said: “I’m afraid, Mr. Fall, as you have honoured me by asking for my advice, that there seems to be nothing you _can_ do but what you have already done--to wait. Maybe sometime ... she ... well, you know what I mean.” I hope he did, for I was by no means sure.... “And you, Lord Tarlyon?”