‘She’s like an unlighted candle,’ Lady Henry de Winton was saying. ‘I can’t understand it.’

‘An altar-candle?’ suggested her husband. ‘Well, we did our best to light her.’

‘No, not an altar-candle,’ Lady Henry said. ‘Not so living as that. A candle by a corpse.’

Lavinia tried to move away and could not.

‘Didn’t you find her a little un-forthcoming,’ Lady Henry went on, half-injured, half-perplexed, ‘and rather remote, as if she had something on her mind? She didn’t seem to be enjoying herself, poor thing. We may have been enjoying ourselves too much, but I don’t think it was that. Did you notice how she scarcely ever followed up what one said?’

‘Perhaps she was tired,’ Lord Henry said. ‘She spends a lot of time looking after her mother.’

Does she? thought Lavinia.

‘I could see what Caroline meant,’ Lady Henry continued. ‘The features were there all right, but the face wasn’t. I felt so sorry for her, I longed to save her from her depression or whatever it is; I piled it on; I put words into Caroline’s mouth; I perjured myself; which reminds me, my darling, that you did dot my “i’s” a little too openly.’

‘I tried to make what you said seem true,’ Lord Henry remarked.

‘Of course you did.’ There was a pause in which they might have kissed each other.

‘Let’s forget Miss Johnstone. We’ve done our kind act for to-day.’

There was a creaking of chairs and Lavinia fled to her room.

‘It’s no use,’ she wrote, after several attempts. ‘I cannot say what I think; I do not know what I think. I am intolerably lonely. I am in love with Emilio, I am infatuated by him: that explains me. If I can’t be justified, at any rate I can be explained. Why should I hold out any longer? I am unrecognizable to myself, and to my friends. My past life has no claim on me, it doesn’t stretch out a hand to me. I believed in it, I lived it as carefully as I could and it has betrayed me. If I invoked it now (I do invoke it) it wouldn’t give me any help. Its experience is all fabulous; its sign-posts point to castles in Spain. Whatever happens between me and Emilio I could never find my way back to it. Respectability must lose its criterion.

‘It pleased me to know that Emilio had been honest after his fashion. I can’t pretend I admire him or even that I very much like him. The only creditable feeling I have is a sort of glow of the heart when he behaves less badly than I expect. These are the credentials of my passion; credential really, but the word is plural. Passion, I call it, but a shorter word describes it better. It does seem a little hard that now I have gone through so much, given up so much, I have no sense of exaltation, no impulse left. I suppose the effort of clearing the jungle of past associations has taken all my strength. I have made a desert and called it peace.’

Next morning a letter accompanied Lavinia’s breakfast. She opened it listlessly; she had hardly slept, and all her sensations seemed second-hand.

‘No, my dear Lavinia,’ she read, ‘you do not deceive me, though you do surprise me. I hope this letter will find you in America, but if it doesn’t, if you have flouted my commands and are still eating your heart out in Venice, it may still serve a useful purpose. How simple you were to imagine I should be taken in by the apocryphal Miss Perkins! If you hadn’t been in your weak way so catty about her, I might have thought twice about believing in her; but your letters, you know, are always crammed with things like this: “Dear Caroline, what a saint she is, she sent me a thimble at Christmas”.

‘I will now give you some rules for your guidance and I earnestly counsel you to follow them. As to your design of shipping the adored to Boston, I don’t like to say what I feel about it; but this I will say: it alarmed me for you. Lavinia, you are not at all cut out for what I might call the guerrilla warfare of love. Your irregularities would be much too irregular.

‘Now listen to me, Simonetta Perkins, you who were once recommended to Mrs. Johnstone, then rejected by her, and have now devolved upon yourself. The great thing to do is to have a programme. At ten, say, go and have a straight talk with your mother; tell her to get up, there’s nothing the matter with her, and she’s only wasting her time in bed. At 10.30 go to your bedroom or some inaccessible place, the roof if possible, ring the bell and tell the waiter to bring you a cocktail. Nothing is so successful in restoring one’s self-respect as giving servants a great deal of trouble. At eleven, sit down and write some letters, preferably a testimonial to me saying you are following my instructions and deriving benefit. At twelve you might visit one of the larger churches. I suggest SS. Giovanni e Paolo: don’t look at the church, look at the tourists, and despise them. Order your luncheon with care and see that you get what you like and like what you get. In the afternoon go to the Lido, or else buy yourself some trifle at a curiosity shop (I recommend one in the Piazzetta dei Leoncini, kept by a man with a name like a Spanish golfer,——della Torre). At five you should call on a Venetian hostess, submit to universal introduction (they will hate you if you don’t and think you mal élevée), praise the present administration and listen politely to the descendants of the doges. If the flutter in your heart is still unsubdued go to Zampironi’s on the way to your hotel and get some bromide: they have it on tap there. In the evening, if you haven’t been asked to a party, go to Florian’s and drink liqueurs—strega, I suggest. Or, if you want a shorter way to oblivion, their horrible benedictine punch. Repeat the time-table on Thursday, and on Friday, by the time your train reaches Verona, certainly when it reaches Brescia, you will have forgotten your gondolier, his name, his face, everything about him.

‘But whatever you do, Lavinia, don’t make your plight fifty times worse by dragging morality into it. I suspect you of examining your conscience, chalking up black marks against yourself, wearing a Scarlet Letter and generally working yourself into a state. Put all such notions from you. The whole thing is a question of convenience. It arises constantly, it is not at all serious. Obviously you can’t marry the man; he is probably married already, and has a large family nearly as old as himself: they marry very young. If you were anyone else you might have him as a lover. I shouldn’t advise it, but with reasonable precautions it could be successfully carried through. But really, Lavinia, for you to have a cavalier servente of that kind would be the greatest folly; you would reproach yourself and feel you had done wrong. And it’s not a question of right and wrong, as I said: only a child of the ‘fifties would think it was. So good-bye Lavinia, and if you can bring me a snapshot of him we will laugh over it together.

       With love,

                       Elizabeth Templeman.’

Lavinia read the letter with relief, with irritation, finally, without emotion of any kind. It was soothing to have her situation made light of; it was irritating to have it made fun of. But in proposing a solution based on reason Miss Templeman had missed the mark altogether, while her appeal to convention added another to Lavinia’s store of terrors. She could face the reproaches of her friends, the intimate disapproval of her conscience; they were part of her ordinary life. But the enmity of convention was outside her experience, for she had always been its ally, marched in its van. She could not placate it because it was implacable; its function was to disapprove.

The Evanses had gone, Stephen had gone, the Kolynopulos had gone, the de Wintons had gone; Elizabeth had failed to come, and Mrs. Johnstone would not rise till noon. Lavinia was alone.

Emilio did not desert her; he came in all his finery, he was delighted to see her. Stepping into the gondola Lavinia felt almost satisfied. It was a prize she had fought for against odds during a fortnight, and at last it was hers. ‘Comandi, Signorina?’ Emilio said, slowly moving his oar backwards and forwards. ‘Am I his Anthea?’ thought Lavinia. ‘Can I command him anything?’ But she only suggested they should go to San Salvatore. ‘Chiesa molto bella,’ she hazarded. ‘Si, si,’ returned Emilio, ‘e molto antica.’ That was the sort of conversation she liked, so easy, like fitting together two halves of a proverb. She felt deliriously weary. Suddenly she heard a shout. Emilio answered it, more loquaciously than was his wont. She looked up: it was only a passing gondolier, saying good-morning. Another shout. This time a whole sentence followed, in those clipped syllables which Lavinia could never catch. Emilio ceased rowing and answered at length, speaking in short bursts and with great conviction. A minute later a similar, even longer, interchange took place. The whole army of gondoliers seemed to take an interest in Emilio, to know his business and to be congratulating him on some success. Suddenly it seemed to Lavinia that from every pavement, traghetto, doorstep, and window a fire of enquiries was being directed upon her gondolier; and the enquirers all looked at her.