and she began to cry; for here, where a great cypress interrupted the monotony of the girdle of olives, she had sat with Gino one afternoon in March, her head upon his shoulder, while Caroline was looking at the view and sketching.  Round the corner was the Siena gate, from which the road to England started, and she could hear the rumble of the diligence which was going down to catch the night train to Empoli.  The next moment it was upon her, for the highroad came towards her a little before it began its long zigzag down the hill.

The driver slackened, and called to her to get in.  He did not know who she was.  He hoped she might be coming to the station.

“Non vengo!” she cried.

He wished her good-night, and turned his horses down the corner.  As the diligence came round she saw that it was empty.

“Vengo . . .”

Her voice was tremulous, and did not carry.  The horses swung off.

“Vengo!  Vengo!”

He had begun to sing, and heard nothing.  She ran down the road screaming to him to stop—­that she was coming; while the distance grew greater and the noise of the diligence increased.  The man’s back was black and square against the moon, and if he would but turn for an instant she would be saved.  She tried to cut off the corner of the zigzag, stumbling over the great clods of earth, large and hard as rocks, which lay between the eternal olives.  She was too late; for, just before she regained the road, the thing swept past her, thunderous, ploughing up choking clouds of moonlit dust.

She did not call any more, for she felt very ill, and fainted; and when she revived she was lying in the road, with dust in her eyes, and dust in her mouth, and dust down her ears.  There is something very terrible in dust at night-time.

“What shall I do?” she moaned.  “He will be so angry.”

And without further effort she slowly climbed back to captivity, shaking her garments as she went.

Ill luck pursued her to the end.  It was one of the nights when Gino happened to come in.  He was in the kitchen, swearing and smashing plates, while Perfetta, her apron over her head, was weeping violently.  At the sight of Lilia he turned upon her and poured forth a flood of miscellaneous abuse.  He was far more angry but much less alarming than he had been that day when he edged after her round the table.  And Lilia gained more courage from her bad conscience than she ever had from her good one, for as he spoke she was seized with indignation and feared him no longer, and saw him for a cruel, worthless, hypocritical, dissolute upstart, and spoke in return.

Perfetta screamed for she told him everything—­all she knew and all she thought.  He stood with open mouth, all the anger gone out of him, feeling ashamed, and an utter fool.  He was fairly and rightfully cornered.  When had a husband so given himself away before?  She finished; and he was dumb, for she had spoken truly.  Then, alas! the absurdity of his own position grew upon him, and he laughed—­as he would have laughed at the same situation on the stage.