He walked to the window and looked out.  His hotel was not in a fashionable or frequented quarter of Rome, and the opposite view of the street was anything but enlivening.  Dirty, frowsy women,—­idle men, lounging along with the slouching gait which is common to the ‘unemployed’ Italian,—­half-naked children, running hither and thither in the mud, and screaming like tortured wild animals,—­this kind of shiftless, thriftless humanity, pictured against the background of ugly modern houses, such as one might find in a London back slum, made up a cheerless prospect, particularly as the blue sky was clouded and it was beginning to rain.  One touch of colour brightened the scene for a moment, when a girl with a yellow handkerchief tied round her head passed along, carrying a huge flat basket overflowing with bunches of purple violets, and as Fontenelle caught the hue, and imagined the fragrance of the flowers, he was surprised to feel his eyes smart with a sudden sting of tears.  The picture of Sylvie Hermenstein, with her child-like head, fair hair, and deep blue eyes, floated before him,—­she was fond of violets, and whenever she wore them, their odour seemed to be the natural exhalation of her sweet and spirituelle personality.

“She is much too good for me!” he said half aloud, “To be perfectly honest with myself, I know I have no stability of character, and I cannot imagine myself remaining constant to any woman for more than six months.  And the best way is to be perfectly straight-forward about it.”

He sat down again, and without taking any more thought wrote straight from the heart of his present humour, addressing her by the name he had once playfully bestowed upon her.

“Enchanteresse!  I am here in Rome, and this brief letter is to ask, without preamble or apology, whether you will do me the infinite honour to become my wife.  I confess to you honestly that I am not worth this consideration on your part, for I am not to be relied upon.  I repose no confidence in myself, therefore I will leave it to you to measure my audacity in making the suggestion that you should place a lifetime’s confidence in me.  But with all my heart, (as much as I know of it at the present), I desire to show you what respect so poor a life as mine can give to one who deserves all tenderness, as well as trust.  If I may hope that you will pardon my past follies and libertinage with regard to you,—­if you can love me well enough to wear my not too exalted name, and preserve my remaining stock of honour, summon me to your presence, and I will endeavour, by such devotion and fidelity as in me lies, to atone for whatsoever offence I may have given you previously by my too passionate pursuit of your beauty.  Yours, unless you decide my fate otherwise,

“Guy Beausire de Fontenelle.”