"It is impossible," he said, in a dull voice. "She cannot break off such an engagement."
"She has," Guido answered, still looking away. "It is done. She has written to say that she will never marry me."
"Why?" Lamberti asked mechanically.
"Because—" Guido stopped short. "That is her secret. Unless she chooses to tell you herself."
Lamberti knew the secret already, but he would not pain Guido by saying so. The four words he had read had explained enough, though he had not the slightest clew to the name of the man concerned, and his anger was rising quietly, as it did when he was going to be dangerous. He loved Cecilia much and unreasoningly, yet so long as his friend had stood between her and himself he had been strong enough not to be jealous of him; but he was under no obligation to that other man, and now he wished that he had him in his hands. Moreover, his anger was against the girl, too.
"It is outrageous," he said, at last, with a conviction that comforted Guido a little. "It is perfectly abominable! What shall you do?"
"I can do nothing, of course."
Guido tossed on his pillows, turned his head, and stared at Lamberti, hoping to be contradicted.
"It is of no use to go to bed because a woman is faithless," answered Lamberti rather savagely. Guido almost laughed.
"I am ill," he said. "I can hardly stand. She telephoned to me to go and see her, but I could not, and so she wrote what she had to say. It is just as well. I am glad she cannot see me just now."