One day, on entering Roderick’s lodging (not the modest rooms on the Ripetta which he had first occupied, but a much more sumptuous apartment on the Corso), Rowland found a letter on the table addressed to himself.  It was from Roderick, and consisted of but three lines:  “I am gone to Frascati—­for meditation.  If I am not at home on Friday, you had better join me.”  On Friday he was still absent, and Rowland went out to Frascati.  Here he found his friend living at the inn and spending his days, according to his own account, lying under the trees of the Villa Mondragone, reading Ariosto.  He was in a sombre mood; “meditation” seemed not to have been fruitful.  Nothing especially pertinent to our narrative had passed between the two young men since Mrs. Light’s ball, save a few words bearing on an incident of that entertainment.  Rowland informed Roderick, the next day, that he had told Miss Light of his engagement.  “I don’t know whether you ’ll thank me,” he had said, “but it ’s my duty to let you know it.  Miss Light perhaps has already done so.”

Roderick looked at him a moment, intently, with his color slowly rising.  “Why should n’t I thank you?” he asked.  “I am not ashamed of my engagement.”

“As you had not spoken of it yourself, I thought you might have a reason for not having it known.”

“A man does n’t gossip about such a matter with strangers,” Roderick rejoined, with the ring of irritation in his voice.

“With strangers—­no!” said Rowland, smiling.

Roderick continued his work; but after a moment, turning round with a frown:  “If you supposed I had a reason for being silent, pray why should you have spoken?”

“I did not speak idly, my dear Roderick.  I weighed the matter before I spoke, and promised myself to let you know immediately afterwards.  It seemed to me that Miss Light had better know that your affections are pledged.”

“The Cavaliere has put it into your head, then, that I am making love to her?”

“No; in that case I would not have spoken to her first.”

“Do you mean, then, that she is making love to me?”

“This is what I mean,” said Rowland, after a pause.  “That girl finds you interesting, and is pleased, even though she may play indifference, at your finding her so.  I said to myself that it might save her some sentimental disappointment to know without delay that you are not at liberty to become indefinitely interested in other women.”

“You seem to have taken the measure of my liberty with extraordinary minuteness!” cried Roderick.

“You must do me justice.  I am the cause of your separation from Miss Garland, the cause of your being exposed to temptations which she hardly even suspects.  How could I ever face her,” Rowland demanded, with much warmth of tone, “if at the end of it all she should be unhappy?”

“I had no idea that Miss Garland had made such an impression on you.  You are too zealous; I take it she did n’t charge you to look after her interests.”