for either of us, no real harm could have come of
it. I would have put any constraint upon
myself, and, Heaven knows! have borne any suffering,
to see Mat really happy. I know that he
would have done the same, and more if he
could, for me. But Gianetta cared not one
sou for either. She never meant to choose
between us. It gratified her vanity to divide
us; it amused her to play with us. It would
pass my power to tell how, by a thousand imperceptible shades of coquetry—by the lingering
of a glance, the substitution of a word, the
flitting of a smile—- she contrived to turn our
heads, and torture, our hearts, and lead us on
to love her. She deceived us both. She buoyed
us both up with hope; she maddened us with
jealousy; she crushed is with despair. For
my part, when I seemed to wake to a sudden
sense of the ruin that was about our path and
I saw how the truest friendship that ever
bound two lives together was drifting on to
wreck and ruin, I asked myself whether any
woman in the world was worth what Mat had
been to me and I to him. But this was not often.
I was readier to shut my eyes upon the truth than
to face it; and so lived on, wilfully, in a dream.

Thus the autumn passed away, and winter
came—- the strange, treacherous Genoese winter,
green with olive and ilex, brilliant with
sunshine, and bitter with storm. Still, rivals at
heart and friends on the surface, Mat and I
lingered on in our lodging in the Vicolo Balba.
Still Gianetta held us with her fatal wiles and
her still more fatal beauty. At length there
came a day when I felt I could bear the horrible
misery and suspense of it no longer. The sun,
I vowed, should not go down before I knew my
sentence. She must choose between us. She
must either take me or let me go. I was
reckless. I was desperate. I was determined to
know the worst, or the best. If the worst, I
would at once turn my back upon Genoa, upon
her, upon all the pursuits and purposes of my
past life, and begin the world anew. This I
told her, passionately and sternly, standing
before her in the little parlour at the back of
the shop, one bleak December morning.

"If it's Mat whom you care for most," I
said, " tell me so in one word, and I will never
trouble you again. He is better worth your
love. I am jealous and exacting; he is as
trusting and unselfish as a woman. Speak,
Gianetta; am I to bid you good-bye for ever
and ever, or am I to write home to my mother
in England, bidding her pray to God to bless
the woman who has promised to be my wife?"

"You plead your friend's cause well," she
replied, haughtily. "Matteo ought to be grateful.
This is more than he ever did for you."

"Give me my answer, for pity's sake," I
exclaimed, " and let me go!"

"You are free to go or stay, Signor Inglese,"
she replied. " I am not your jailor."

"Do you bid me leave you?"

"Beata Madre! not I.'"'

"Will you marry me, if I stay?"

She laughed aloud such a merry, mocking,
musical laugh, like a chime of silver bulls!

"You ask too much," she said.

"Only what you have led me to hope these
five or six months past!"

"That is just what Matteo says. How
tiresome you both are!"

"0, Gianetta," I said, passionately, "be
serious for one moment! I am a rough fellow,
it is true—- not half good enough or clever
enough for you; but I love vou with my whole
heart, and an Emperor could do no more."

"I am glad of it," she replied; " I do not
want you to love me less."

"Then you cannot wish to make me wretched!
Will you promise me?"

"I promise nothing," said she, with another
burst of laughter; " except that I will not
marry Matteo!"

Except that she would not marry Matteo!
Only that. Not a word of hope for myself.
Nothing but my friend's condemnation. I
might get comfort, and selfish triumph, and
some sort of base assurance out of that, if I
could. And so, to my shame, I did. I grasped
at the vain encouragement, and, fool that I was!
let her put me off again unanswered. From
that day, I gave up all effort at self-control, and
let myself drift blindly on—- to destruction.

At length things became so bad between Mat
and myself that it seemed as if an open rupture
must be at hand. We avoided each other,
scarcely exchanged a dozen sentences in a day,
and fell away from all our old familiar habits.
At this time—- I shudder to remember it!—- there
were moments when I felt that I hated him.

Thus, with the trouble deepening and widening
between us day by day, another month or
five weeks went by; and February came; and,
with February, the Carnival. They said in
Genoa that it was a particularly dull carnival;
and so it must have been; for, save a flag or two
hung out in some of the principal streets, and a
sort of festa look about the women, there were
no special indications of the season. It was, I
think, the second day when, having been on the
line all the morning, I returned to Genoa at
dusk, and, to my surprise, found Mat Price on
the platform. He came up to me, and laid his
hand on my arm.

"You are in late," he said. "I have been
waiting for you three-quarters of an hour. Shall
we dine together to-day?"

Impulsive as I am, this evidence of returning
good will at once called up my better feelings.

"With all my heart, Mat," I replied; "shall
we go to Gozzoli's?"

"No, no," he said, hurriedly. "Some quieter
place—- some place where we can talk. I have
something to say to you."

I noticed now that he looked pale and
agitated, and an uneasy sense of apprehension
stole upon me. We decided on the " Pescatore,"
a little out-of-the-way trattoria, down near the
Molo Veccliio. There, in a dingy salon,
frequented chiefly by seamen, and redolent of
tobacco, we ordered our simple dinner. Mat
scarcely swallowed a morsel; but, calling
presently for a bottle of Sicilian wine, drank
eagerly.