Whether the flight was planned between them, or whether Pasquale waylaid her on her way to the Avenue Road and then and there proposed that she should accompany him, I do not know.  It matters very little.  She is gone.  That is the one awful fact that signifies.  No explanations, pleas for forgiveness could make me suffer less.  Were she different I might find it in my heart to hate her.  This I cannot do.  How can one hate a thing devoid of heart and soul?  But one can love it—­God knows how blindly.  So I have locked the door of Carlotta’s room and the key is in my possession.  It shall not be touched.  It shall remain just as she left it—­and I shall mourn for her as for one dead.

For Pasquale—­if I were of his own reversionary type, I should follow him half across Europe till we met, and then one of us would kill the other.  In one respect he resembles Carlotta.  He is destitute of the moral sense.  How else to solve the enigma?  How else to reconcile his flamboyant chivalry towards the consumptive washer-woman with the black treachery towards me, in which even at that very moment his mind must have been steeped?  I knew that he had betrayed many, that where women were concerned no considerations of honour or friendship had stood between him and his desires; but I believed—­for what reason save my own egregious vanity, I know not—­that for me he had a peculiar regard.  I believed that it was an idiosyncrasy of this wolf to look upon my sheepfold as sacred from his depredations.  I was ashamed of any doubts that crossed my mind as to his loyalty, and did not hesitate to thrust my lamb between his jaws.  And while he was giving the lie direct to my faith, I, poor fool, in my despair was seeking madly for his aid in the deliverance of my darling from the power of the dog.

I have felt I owe Hamdi Effendi an apology; for it is well that, in the midst of this buffoon tragedy I find myself playing, I should observe occasionally the decencies of conduct.  But, on the other hand, was he not amply repaid for moral injury by the pure joy he must have felt while torturing me with his banter?  For all the deeper suffering, I am conscious of writhing under lacerated vanity when I think of that grotesque and humiliating blunder in the Hotel Metropole.

November 2d.

I have received news of the death of old Simon McQuhatty.  In my few lucid moments of late I had been thinking of seeking his kindly presence.  Now Gossip Death has taken him out across the moor.  Now, dear old pagan, he is

            “Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course
               With rocks and stones and trees.”

November 3d.

Antoinette came up this morning with a large cardboard box addressed to Carlotta.  The messenger who brought it was waiting downstairs.

“I came to Monsieur to know whether I should send it back,” said Antoinette, on the verge of tears.