"May I ask you one question?" she inquired after the pause.
"Of course, and I will answer it if I can."
"I dare say you remember something you told me about yourself a long time ago—how you distrust yourself, and torment yourself about everything you do. Will you tell me whether you have found any fault with your own conduct in this affair, apart from everything which went before the dinner party at which you met Don Gianforte? It would interest me very much to know."
Ghisleri thought over his answer for a few seconds before he gave it.
"Except in so far as I involved your name in the affair," he said, "I do not think I reproach myself with anything very definite."
He had hardly finished speaking when the door opened, and Donald announced Don Francesco and Donna Adele Savelli. A very slight shadow passed over Laura's face, as she rose to meet her step-sister, but Ghisleri remained cold and impassive. Adele started perceptibly, as Laura had done, when she saw him, and Ghisleri was struck by the change in her own appearance. Her expression was that of a woman who is in almost constant pain, and who has grown restless under it, and fears its return at any moment. Her eyes turned uneasily, glancing about the room in all directions, and avoiding the faces of those present. She was pale, too, and looked altogether ill.
"I am so glad to see you, Ghisleri," she said, after she had kissed the air somewhere in the neighbourhood of Laura's cheek. "I had no idea you were out already, and as we are going away to-morrow, I was afraid I might not meet you."
"Are you going out of town so soon?" asked Ghisleri, in some surprise.
"Yes, I am ill, and they say I must go to the country. Do you remember when you met me in the street, and recommended sulphonal? I took it, and it did me good for some time. But then, all at once, I found it did not act so well, and I lost my sleep again. I want the doctors to give me something, but they say all those things become a habit—chloral, you know, and morphia, and a great many things. As if I cared! I would not mind any habit if I could only sleep—and I see things all night—ugh! it is horrible! Have you ever had insomnia? It is quite the most dreadful thing in the world."
She shuddered, and Ghisleri could see well enough that the suffering to which she referred was not at all imaginary.