freshing. Now they have made you only disturbing. I suppose it was inevitable, and with you the change will be temporary."
"I'll never let my hair down again," she retorted. "I've settled that with Gheta. Mother didn't care, really."
She was annoyed by the implied criticism, his entire lack of response to her new being. He had grown blind staring at his stupid old coins.
A step sounded behind her; she turned hopefully, but it was only Cesare Orsi.
"The others have gone outside," he told her, and she noticed that the piano had stopped.
Mantegazza rose and bowed in mock serious formality, at which Lavinia shrugged an impatient shoulder and walked with Orsi across the room and out upon the terrace.
Florence had sunk into a dark chasm of night, except for the curving double row of lights that marked the Lungarno and the indifferent illumination of a few principal squares. The stars seemed big and near in deep blue space. Orsi was standing very close to her, and she moved away; but he followed.
"Lavinia," he muttered, and suddenly his arm was about her waist.
She leaned back, pushing with both hands against his chest; but he swept her irresistibly up to him and kissed her clumsily. A cold rage possessed her. She stopped struggling; yet there was no need to continue—he released her immediately and opened a stammering apology.
"I am a madman," he admitted abjectly—"a little animal that ought to be shot. I don't know what came
