“The task is simple.  You have an instrument ready to your hands.  You can do just what you like with him—­make an Italian of him; make him renounce his engagement to this pert little Lena of Lenkenstein, break his sword, play Arlecchino, do what you please.  He is not required for any outrageous performance.  A week, and Angelo will have recovered his strength; you likewise may resume the statuesque demeanour which you have been exhibiting here.  For the space of one week you are asked for some natural exercise of your wits and compliancy.  Hitherto what have you accomplished, pray?” Laura struck spitefully at Vittoria’s degraded estimation of her worth as measured by events.  “You have done nothing—­ worse than nothing.  It gives me horrors to find it necessary to entreat you to look your duty in the face and do it, that even three or four Italian hearts—­Carlo among them—­may thank you.  Not Carlo, you say?” (Vittoria had sobbed, “No, not Carlo.”) “How little you know men!  How little do you think how the obligations of the hour should affect a creature deserving life!  Do you fancy that Carlo wishes you to be for ever reading the line of a copy-book and shaping your conduct by it?  Our Italian girls do this; he despises them.  Listen to me; do not I know what is meant by the truth of love?  I pass through fire, and keep constant to it; but you have some vile Romance of Chivalry in your head; a modern sculptor’s figure, ‘meditation;’ that is the sort of bride you would give him in the stirring days of Italy.  Do you think it is only a statue that can be true?  Perceive—­will you not—­that this Lieutenant Pierson is your enemy.  He tells you as much; surely the challenge is fair?  Defeat him as you best can.  Angelo shall not be abandoned.”

“O me! it is unendurable; you are merciless,” said Vittoria, shuddering.

She saw the vile figure of herself aping smirks and tender meanings to her old lover.  It was a picture that she dared not let her mind rest on:  how then could she personate it?  All through her life she had been frank; as a young woman, she was clear of soul; she felt that her, simplicity was already soiled by the bare comprehension of the abominable course indicated by Laura.  Degradation seemed to have been a thing up to this moment only dreamed of; but now that it was demanded of her to play coquette and trick her womanhood with false allurements, she knew the sentiment of utter ruin; she was ashamed.  No word is more lightly spoken than shame.  Vittoria’s early devotion to her Art, and subsequently to her Italy, had carried her through the term when she would otherwise have showed the natural mild attack of the disease.  It came on her now in a rush, penetrating every chamber of her heart, overwhelming her; she could see no distinction between being ever so little false and altogether despicable.  She had loathings of her body and her life.  With grovelling difficulty of speech she endeavoured to convey the sense of her repugnance to Laura, who leaned her ear, wondering at such bluntness of wit in a woman, and said, “Are you quite deficient in the craft of your sex, child?  You can, and you will, guard yourself ten times better when your aim is simply to subject him.”  But this was not reason to a spirit writhing in the serpent-coil of fiery blushes.