Lilia had achieved pathos despite herself, for there are some situations in which vulgarity counts no longer.  Not Cordelia nor Imogen more deserves our tears.

She herself cried frequently, making herself look plain and old, which distressed her husband.  He was particularly kind to her when he hardly ever saw her, and she accepted his kindness without resentment, even with gratitude, so docile had she become.  She did not hate him, even as she had never loved him; with her it was only when she was excited that the semblance of either passion arose.  People said she was headstrong, but really her weak brain left her cold.

Suffering, however, is more independent of temperament, and the wisest of women could hardly have suffered more.

As for Gino, he was quite as boyish as ever, and carried his iniquities like a feather.  A favourite speech of his was, “Ah, one ought to marry!  Spiridione is wrong; I must persuade him.  Not till marriage does one realize the pleasures and the possibilities of life.”  So saying, he would take down his felt hat, strike it in the right place as infallibly as a German strikes his in the wrong place, and leave her.

One evening, when he had gone out thus, Lilia could stand it no longer.  It was September.  Sawston would be just filling up after the summer holidays.  People would be running in and out of each other’s houses all along the road.  There were bicycle gymkhanas, and on the 30th Mrs. Herriton would be holding the annual bazaar in her garden for the C.M.S.  It seemed impossible that such a free, happy life could exist.  She walked out on to the loggia.  Moonlight and stars in a soft purple sky.  The walls of Monteriano should be glorious on such a night as this.  But the house faced away from them.

Perfetta was banging in the kitchen, and the stairs down led past the kitchen door.  But the stairs up to the attic—­the stairs no one ever used—­opened out of the living-room, and by unlocking the door at the top one might slip out to the square terrace above the house, and thus for ten minutes walk in freedom and peace.

The key was in the pocket of Gino’s best suit—­the English check—­which he never wore.  The stairs creaked and the key-hole screamed; but Perfetta was growing deaf.  The walls were beautiful, but as they faced west they were in shadow.  To see the light upon them she must walk round the town a little, till they were caught by the beams of the rising moon.  She looked anxiously at the house, and started.

It was easy walking, for a little path ran all outside the ramparts.  The few people she met wished her a civil good-night, taking her, in her hatless condition, for a peasant.  The walls trended round towards the moon; and presently she came into its light, and saw all the rough towers turn into pillars of silver and black, and the ramparts into cliffs of pearl.  She had no great sense of beauty, but she was sentimental,