Angelo shall not be abandoned.” “O me! it is unendurable; you are merciless,” said Vittoria, shuddering. She saw the vile figure of herself aping smirks and tender meanings to her old lover. It was a picture that she dared not let her mind rest on: how then could she personate it? All through her life she had been frank; as a young woman, she was clear of soul; she felt that her, simplicity was already soiled by the bare comprehension of the abominable course indicated by Laura. Degradation seemed to have been a thing up to this moment only dreamed of; but now that it was demanded of her to play coquette and trick her womanhood with false allurements, she knew the sentiment of utter ruin; she was ashamed. No word is more lightly spoken than shame. Vittoria's early devotion to her Art, and subsequently to her Italy, had carried her through the term when she would otherwise have showed the natural mild attack of the disease. It came on her now in a rush, penetrating every chamber of her heart, overwhelming her; she could see no distinction between being ever so little false and altogether despicable. She had loathings of her body and her life. With grovelling difficulty of speech she endeavoured to convey the sense of her repugnance to Laura, who leaned her ear, wondering at such bluntness of wit in a woman, and said, “Are you quite deficient in the craft of your sex, child? You can, and you will, guard yourself ten times better when your aim is simply to subject him.” But this was not reason to a spirit writhing in the serpent-coil of fiery blushes. Vittoria said, “I shall pity him so.” She meant she would pity Wilfrid in deluding him. It was a taint of the hypocrisy which comes with shame. The signora retorted: “I can't follow the action of your mind a bit.” Pity being a form of tenderness, Laura supposed that she would intuitively hate the man who compelled her to do what she abhorred. They spent the greater portion of the night in this debate. CHAPTER XXVIII THE ESCAPE OF ANGELO