During the next two days and nights Byron spent his every waking and sleeping hour with Lasca. There were rages, succeeded by tumultuous passions; there were peaceful interludes; there were hours devoted to satisfying capricious desires, rhythmical amours to music, cruel and painful pastimes; there were the artificial paradises. Then, late one afternoon, Byron awakened to find himself alone.
At first he had no true realization of what had happened. He threw back the covers to be certain she was not concealed beneath them. Then he sat bolt upright and called her name. There was no reply. Leaping from the bed, he peered into the bathroom. No one there. Turning back, he sought a clue. The dress she had worn the previous evening lay crumpled on the floor where she had dropped it. Her chiffon undergarments, her stockings, her little silver shoes, were scattered about promiscuously. From the dresser, however, he missed her watch and her rings. He sensed a premonition of disaster. She was gone! Standing quite still in the centre of the floor, he tried to conceive what life would be without her.
