When I came to myself I was in my own bed in my own room, having been found, apparently in a state of helpless intoxication, lying in a street some distance from where I lived.

II.—­Not for Love or Marriage

Two years elapsed.  The operation had given me back the use of my eyes.  I was in the city of Turin with a friend.  The sight of a beautiful face lured my companion and myself into the cathedral of San Giovanni.  It was the face of a young girl of about twenty-two; a face of entrancing beauty.  Seated with my friend, I watched her until she rose and left with her companion, an old Italian woman.  For a moment I caught a look of her dark, glorious eyes as she mechanically crossed herself with holy water.  There was a dreamy, far-away look in them, a look that seemed to pass over one and see what was behind the object gazed at.

We followed her out of the cathedral and saw the old woman speak to a middle-aged, round-shouldered, bespectacled man of gentlemanly appearance.

“Do English gentlemen stare at their own countrywomen in public places like this?” said a voice at our elbows.

I turned to see a tall man of about thirty standing just behind us.  His face, with its heavy moustache, sneering mouth, and darkened, sullen eyes, was not a pleasant one, and his impudent question annoyed me.  My friend, with a few sharp retorts, delivered to him a crushing snub, and the man turned away, scowling.  We saw him cross the road to the middle-aged man who had been speaking to the old Italian woman and her charge.  And then we, too, went our way.

The girl’s face haunted me, but we never saw her again in the city of Turin.

Some weeks later, when I was wandering through London, I suddenly came upon her in the company of her old nurse.  I tracked her to her lodgings and there engaged rooms myself.  An accident to the nurse, whose name I discovered was Theresa, gave me an opportunity of introducing myself.  The girl spoke to me, but her voice and her manner was strangely apathetic.  She seemed never to know me unless I spoke to her, and then, unless I asked questions, our conversation died a natural death.  To make love to her seemed impossible, and yet I loved her passionately.

At last, by aid of bribes, I managed to secure the qualified assistance of Theresa.  She promised to place my proposals before the girl’s guardian.  Of Pauline herself—­such was the girl’s name—­Theresa would say nothing.  When I asked her if she thought the girl cared for me, she replied mysteriously and enigmatically.

“Who knows?  I do not know—­but I tell you the signorina is not for love or marriage.”

Theresa fulfilled her part of the bargain, and I received a visit from the middle-aged man I had seen in Turin.  His name was Manuel Ceneri.  His sister had married Pauline’s father, an Englishman, March by name.  He consented readily to my marriage with Pauline on one condition.  I was to ask no questions, seek to know nothing of her birth and family, nothing of her early days.