“It seems to me to belong to those excesses that prompt—­that are in themselves a species of suicide.”

“Love is said to be the death of self.”

“No; but I must use cant words, Merthyr; I do wish to see modesty.  Yes, I know I must be right.”

“There is very little of it to be had in a tropical storm.”

“You admit, then, that this sort of love is a storm that passes?”

“It passes, I hope.”

“But where is your defence of her now?”

“Have I defended her?  I need not try.  A man has deceived her, and she doesn’t think it possible; and has said so, I presume.  When she sees it, she will be quieter than most.  She will not reproach him subsequently.  Here is the hotel, and that must be Charlotte’s room, if I may judge by the lights.  What pranks will she always be playing!  We seem to have brought new elements into the little town.  Do you remember Bergamo the rainy night the Austrian trooped out of Milan?—­one light that was a thousand in the twinkling of an eye!”

Having arrived, he ran hastily up to the room, expecting to find the three; but Lady Charlotte was alone, sitting in her chair with knotted arms.  “Ah, Merthyr!” she said, “I’m sorry you should have been disturbed.  I perceive what Georgey’s leaving the room meant.  I suppose the hotel people are used to yachting-parties.”  And then, not seeing any friendly demonstration on his part, she folded her arms in another knot.  Georgiana asked where Emilia was.  Lady Charlotte replied that Emilia had gone, and then Wilfrid had followed her, one minute later, to get her into shelter somewhere.  Or put penknives out of her way.  “I am rather fatigued with a scene, Merthyr.  I never had an idea before of what your Southern women were.  One plays decidedly second to them while the fit lasts.  Of course, you have a notion that I planned the whole of the absurd business.  This is the case:—­I found the girl on the beach:  she follows him everywhere, which is bad for her reputation, because in this climate people suspect, positive reasons for that kind of female devotedness.  So, to put an end to it—­really for her own sake, quite as much as anything else—­am I a monster of insensibility, Merthyr?—­I made her swear an oath:  one must be a point above wild animals to feel that to be binding, however!  I made her swear to listen and remain there silent till I opened the door to set her at liberty.  She consented—­gave her word solemnly.  I calculated that she might faint, and fixed her in an arm-chair.  Was that cruel?  Merthyr, you have called me Austrian more than once; but, upon my honour, I wanted her to get over her delusion comfortably.  I thought she would have kept the oath, I confess; she looked up like a child when she was making it.  You have heard the rest from Georgey.  I must say the situation was rather hard on Wilfrid.  If he blames me it will be excuseable, though what I did plan was to save him from a situation somewhat worse.  So now you know the whole, Merthyr.  Commence your lecture.  Make me a martyr to the sorrows of Italy once more.”