ing between us. He was the only one before whom I'd have grovelled on the ground, kissing his feet because he was a man and a good man. And it was his goodness that spoiled everything. We could have run away, anywhere, giving up everything, even though he was a priest. What difference would it have made in the end? Who would have cared? And now he is an old man with peace in his soul who thinks me a harlot. It is your fault, Jean. It is your fault. You could have taken me when you wanted me, that time at Caporolla in the garden or at Nina's or the night at Brufani's when Fate brought us together alone. You could have saved me, Jean. You could have saved me! I'd have been with you tonight happy to sit by you, instead of here in the loggia waiting for Oreste. But you turned your back and contented yourself with writing pious sayings in a book and looking at me in silence out of your black eyes. God understands. God must know that what you did was a sin. And still you can have peace and faith, shutting me out. Shutting me out.
(The thought was near now, far too near to be put away.) The city is quiet. There isn't even the sound of a motor-horn or the faint music from the Piazza. The moon has passed the zenith and everyone is in bed . . . everyone but me who stands listening and watching in the loggia. Even the lovers have gone away. They are young, happy creatures, they are young. There are years before them, and before me—perhaps a single night, a week, a month. O God, send him to me.
(The thought cried out aloud.) He is not com-
