"What has happened?" Lamberti asked, sitting on the nearest chair and watching him. "Has your aunt been troubling you again?"
"No. It is worse than that." Guido paused, and his head sank lower. "The Contessina has changed her mind," he managed to say clearly enough to be understood.
Lamberti started and leaned forward.
"Do you mean to say that she has thrown you over?"
"Yes."
A dead silence followed. Then Guido threw himself on the bed again and turned his face away.
"Say something, man," he cried, almost angrily.
The afternoon light streamed through the closed blinds and fell on the crumpled sheet of the letter that lay at Lamberti's feet. He did not know what he saw as he stared down at it, and he would have cut off his hand rather than pry into any one's letters, but four words had photographed themselves upon his brain before he had realised their meaning, or even that he had seen them.
"I love another man."
Those were the words, and he had never seen the handwriting, but he knew that Cecilia had written them. Guido's cry for some sort of consolation was still ringing in his ears.