We entered the hotel and stole past the office; the porter was sleeping with his head bowed across his arms. On the dimly lit stairs she dragged on my arm, so that I halted. Suddenly she freed herself and broke from me, running on ahead.
Standing still, almost hiding from her, I listened for her door to open and shut. Nothing stirred. I crept along the naked passage and found her leaning against the wall outside our rooms. Her head was thrown back in weariness, not in defiance; her arms were spread out helplessly; her hands, with palms inward, wandered blindly over the wall’s surface. She was panting like a hunted fawn. Her knees shook under her. Her attitude was horribly that of one who had been crucified.
Made reckless by remorse, I bent over her and kissed her. Because I did not put my arms about her, she made no response.
Something happened, wholly inexplicable, as though we had been joined by a third presence. Not a stair creaked. Everyone was in bed. The air was flooded with the slow, sweet smell of violets. I became aware of a palpitating sense of moral danger.
I drew back from Fiesole. Her physical fascination faded from me; yet I had never felt more tender towards her.
“I’m sorry, dear,” I said.
She met my gaze with a frozen, focusless expression of despair. Her hands ceased their wandering.
I entered my room and, closing the door, stood pressed against the panel, listening. After what seemed an interminable silence, her door opened and shut. I looked out into the passage; it was empty.
I spent a sleepless night and rose with my mind made up; since she wanted it I would marry her.