“If that’s so,” said Mary, “why did you make love to me?” Calamy did not reply. Why indeed? He had often asked that question himself. “I think it would be best,” she said, after a silence, “if we were to make an end.” She would go away, she would grieve in solitude. “Make an end?” Calamy repeated. He desired it, of course, above everything—to make an end, to be free. But he found himself adding, with a kind of submarine laughter below the surface of his voice. “Do you think you _can_ make an end?” “Why not?” “Suppose I don’t allow you to?” Did she imagine, then, that she wasn’t in his power, that he couldn’t make her obey his will whenever he desired? “I _don’t_ allow you,” he said, and his voice quivered with the rising mirth. He bent over her and began to kiss her on the mouth; with his hands he held and caressed her. What an insanity, he said to himself. “No, no.” Mary struggled a little; but in the end she allowed herself to be overcome. She lay still, trembling, like one who has been tortured on the rack. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER II On their return, somewhat low-spirited, from Montefiascone, Mrs. Aldwinkle and her party found Mary Thriplow alone in the palace. “And Calamy?” Mrs. Aldwinkle inquired. “He’s gone into the mountains,” said Miss Thriplow in a serious, matter-of-fact voice. “Why?” “He felt like that,” Mary answered. “He wanted to be alone to think. I understand it so well. The prospect of your return filled him almost with terror. He went off two or three days ago.” “Into the mountains?” echoed Mrs. Aldwinkle. “Is he sleeping in the woods, or in a cave, or something of that kind?” “He’s taken a room in a peasant’s cottage on the road up to the marble quarries. It’s a lovely place.” “This sounds most interesting,” said Mr. Cardan. “I must really climb up and have a look at him.” “I’m sure he’d rather you didn’t,” said Miss Thriplow. “He wants to be left alone. I understand it so well,” she repeated. Mr. Cardan looked at her curiously; her face expressed a bright and serious serenity. “I’m surprised that you too don’t retire from the world,” he said, twinkling. He had not felt as cheerful as this since before the dismal day of poor Grace’s funeral. Miss Thriplow smiled a Christian smile. “You think it’s a joke,” she said, shaking her head. “But it isn’t really, you know.” “I’m sure it isn’t,” Mr. Cardan made haste to protest. “And believe me, I never meant to imply that it was. Never, on my word. I merely said—quite seriously, I assure you—that I was surprised that you too....” “Well, you see, it doesn’t seem to me necessary to go away bodily,” Miss Thriplow explained. “It’s always seemed to me that one can live the hermit’s life, if one wants to, in the heart of London, anywhere.” “Quite,” said Mr. Cardan. “You’re perfectly right.”