Then he moved to his writing table and composed rapidly a letter to his beloved in which he recounted to her the result of the interview and the threats of her late fiance, and the humor in which he had quitted the room, and from that she might judge of what she must reasonably expect.  He advised her, as he was unaware of how far the English authority of a guardian might go, to feign some fatigue and keep her room next day and on no account whatever to be persuaded to leave Rome or the hotel.  He told her that in the morning he would endeavor to see her uncle and aunt, but if they refused this interview, he would write and ask formally for her hand, and if his request were treated with scorn, then she must be prepared to slip away with him to the Excelsior Hotel and be consigned to the care of the Princess Urazov, his sister, who would have arrived from Paris.  The business part of the epistle over, he allowed himself half a page of love sentences—­which caused Miss Rawson exquisite delight when she read them some moments later.

She had not gone to bed directly, she was too excited and full of new emotions to be thinking of sleep, and when she heard Ivan’s gentle tap at her door she crept to it and whispered without opening it: 

“Who is there?”

A low voice answered:  “Une lettre pour mademoiselle.”  And the epistle was slipped into the little box for letters on the door.  She went back to her wide window and looked out on the darkness after she had read it.  She saw there would be trouble ahead, she knew Eustace Medlicott’s obstinate spirit very well, and also the rigid convention of Aunt Caroline—­but to what lengths they would go she formulated no guess.

It all seemed so secure and happy and calm now with such a man to lean upon as Sasha Roumovski.  Nothing need ruffle or frighten her ever any more.  And then she read the love sentences again and thrilled and quivered there in the warm, soft night.  Sasha Roumovski’s influence over her had grown so strong that not a questioning speculation as to the step she meant to take any longer entered her head.  She felt she knew at last what love’s meaning truly was, and nothing else mattered in the world—­which, indeed, was the truth!

Meanwhile, the Reverend Eustace Medlicott, burning with fury, had stalked to his room, and there tried to think of what he had better do.  He feared it was too late to communicate with Canon and Mrs. Ebley—­they would have retired to bed, and Stella, also.  Here his thoughts were brought up with violent suddenness.  Was she quite safe?  Heavens above! and he turned quite cold—­foreigners might be capable of any outrage—­but presently he dismissed this fear.  People always locked their doors in hotels, and Stella, though she had apparently shown herself sadly unworthy of his regard, was a thoroughly well brought-up young woman, and would not be likely to bandy words in the night with any young man.  But on the morrow he would insist upon their all leaving the hotel and Rome itself—­no more chances of her communicating with this hateful Russian count should be risked.