Her tenderness rose till it choked in her throat, blurred what she had to say.
"Cesare," she told him, "Gheta was right; at one time I was in love with Mochales." He turned with a startled exclamation; but she silenced him. "He was, it seemed, all that a girl might admire—dark and mysterious and handsome. He was romantic. I demanded nothing else then; now something has happened that I don't altogether understand, but it has changed everything for me. Cesare, your money never made any difference in my feeling for you—it didn't before and it doesn't to-night" She hesitated and blushed painfully, awkwardly.
The cigar fell from his hand and he rose, eagerly facing her.
"Lavinia," he asked, "is it possible—do you mean that you care the least about me?"
"It must be that, Cesare, because I am so terribly afraid."
Later he admitted ruefully:
"But no man should resemble, as I do, a great oyster. I shall pay very dearly for my laziness."
"You are not going to fight Mochales!" she protested. "It would be insanity."
"Insanity," he agreed promptly. "Yet I can't permit myself to be the target for vile tongues."
Lavinia abruptly left him and hurried to her sister's room. The door was locked; she knocked, but got no response.
"Gheta," she called, low and urgently, "open at once! Your plans have gone dreadfully wrong. Gheta!" she said more sharply into the answering silence. "Cesare
