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SADCW-6ed Chapter 7: Designing the User and System Interfaces
TRUE/FALSE
1. Ease of learning and ease of use are often in conflict.
ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: p190
2. User interface design is frequently added to the system after the business rules and business logic has
been designed.
ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: p189
3. To implement the dialog metaphor requires voice communication and voice recognition capabilities on
the computer.
4. A good example of an error message might be, “The account information is missing critical data.
Please re-enter.”
5. Users need to feel that they can explore options and take actions that can be canceled without
difficulty.
6. A persons ability to remember things is not an important consideration for user-interface design.
7. Dialog and user-interface design is best done in a top-down approach.
8. Designing a consistent-appearing and consistent-functioning interface is one of the least important
design goals.
9. Adequate feedback from a system to user data entry helps reduce errors.
10. Menus should only include options that are activities from the list of use cases.
11. Menu design and dialog design should be done separately.

12. An initial grouping of cases by actor and subsystem is a good starting point for menu design.
13. Each dialog may only have one window form.
14. Storyboarding should result in a detailed dialog design.
15. The design of a desktop system and a Web based system have similar performance issues that must be
considered.
16. EDI stands for electronic database integration.
17. XML is a technique to identify possible security breaches in the system.
18. Highly automated input devices such as scanners can capture many system inputs.
19. XML is a definition language that allows users add new constructs to the language.
MULTIPLE CHOICE
1. Which of the following is NOT one of the principles of user-centered design?
a. Focus early on the users and their work.
b. Evaluate design to ensure usability.
c. Business requirements drive development.
d. Use iterative development.
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: p189
2. A metaphor of human-computer interaction (HCI) in which the user interacts directly with objects on
the display screen, is referred to as ____.
a. desktop metaphor c. document metaphor
b. direct manipulation metaphor d. dialog metaphor
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: p191
3. An approach where the visual display is organized into regions and includes an arrangement of
common tool icons is called a ____.

b. direct manipulation d. dialog metaphor
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: p191
4. A metaphor of human-computer interaction (HCI) in which interacting with the computer, is much like
carrying on a conversation is called ____.
b. direct manipulation d. dialog metaphor
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: p191
5. Software (such as typical tax preparation software) which in essence interviews the user is following
which user interface metaphor?
a. Collaboration metaphor c. Interview metaphor
b. Document metaphor d. Dialog metaphor
6. The study of human interaction with machines in general is called ____.
a. human factors engineering c. human-computer interaction
b. user-centered design d. usability
7. A metaphor of human-computer interaction, in which interaction with the computer involves browsing
and entering data on electronic documents, is referred to as a ____ metaphor.
a. desktop c. document
b. direct manipulation d. dialog
8. A key principle of human-computer interaction (HCI) that states that all controls should be noticeable
and provide an indication that the control is responding to the user's action, is called ____.
a. informative feedback c. consistency
b. affordance d. visibility
9. A key principle of human-computer interaction (HCI), that states that the appearance of any control
should suggest its functionality, is called ____.
a. informative feedback c. consistency
b. affordance d. visibility
10. Since it is not always clear that Web page objects are clickable, or when a control has recognized the
click, designers should be careful to apply the principle of ____.
a. affordance c. shortcuts
b. consistency d. visibility
11. Each dialog within the system should be organized with a clear sequence–a beginning, middle, and
end. This describes which of the eight golden rules for designing interactive interfaces?
a. Offer informative feedback
b. Permit easy reversal of actions

c. Support internal locus of control
d. Design dialogs to yield closure.
12. Operating systems deliberately include an electronic “click” sound for keyboard and mouse activities.
This describes which of the eight golden rules for designing interactive interfaces?
a. Offer informative feedback
b. Offer simple error handling
c. Support internal locus of control
d. Strive for consistency
13. “When subsequent processing is delayed by more than a second or two, users may repeatedly press
controls or reenter information, resulting in processing errors and user frustration” is an example of
what?
a. Lack of error handling c. Lack of closure
b. Lack of feedback d. Lack of consistency
14. Designers should be sure to include cancel buttons on all dialog boxes which allow the user to back up.
This is an example of what?
a. Easy reversal of actions
b. Reduce short term memory load
c. Good error handling
d. Dialog that yields closure
15. Users should not be required to keep track of information that they have previously entered. This is
an example of what?
a. Easy reversal of actions c. Good error handling
b. Reduce short term memory load d. Dialogs that yields closure
16. A good design heuristic for menu design is to limit the menu choices to _____ choices.
a. four to nine c. three to seven
b. never more than seven d. five to ten
17. One way to ensure consistency across the web pages of a web site is to implement the pages using
_______.
a. Device specific pages
b. Menu items that are grouped appropriately
c. Cascading style sheets
d. Browser specific coding
18. What does XML stand for?
a. Extended Module Links c. Extensible Markup Language
b. External Machine Language d. Extensible Modern Language

19. Which of the following is NOT an input device used to reduce input errors?
a. Magnetic card strip reader c. Touch screen
b. Electronic keyboard d. Bar code reader
20. The primary objective of using automated input devices is to _______.
a. produce error-free data c. increase throughput
b. reduce costs d. eliminate human input
21. Which of the following is NOT an example of a technique to reduce input errors?
a. Design input codes with special meanings
b. Avoid human involvement
c. User electronic data capture devices
d. Capture data close to the source
22. Reports that are not predefined by a programmer, but are designed as needed, are called ____ reports.
a. one-time c. business
b. quick and dirty d. ad hoc
23. A report that contains only information about nonstandard or out-of-bound conditions is a(n) ____
report.
a. runtime c. exception
b. error d. executive
24. A report that is used primarily for strategic decision making is called a(n) ____ report.
a. executive c. exception
b. key item d. summary
25. An external output that includes a portion that is returned to the system as an input is a(n) ____.
a. output-input document c. return document
b. turn-around document d. tear off and return document
26. A report that is printed to be used by persons outside of the organization is called a(n) ____.
a. outside report c. external output
b. non-sensitive output d. company report
27. The ability to link a summary field to the supporting detail, and to dynamically view that detail on a
screen, is called ____.
a. exploding report c. dynamic reporting

b. windowing a field d. drill down
28. The major advantage of screen output versus printed output is that screen output ____.
a. can be updated dynamically c. has more information
b. is more user friendly d. is more secure
29. Electronic reports can provide a(n) ____ on the report to activate a lower-level report, which provides
more detailed information.
a. cursor link c. mouseover
b. activation key d. hot spot hyperlink
30. One effective way to present large volumes of data is to summarize it and present it ____.
a. in tabular form c. with control totals
b. in graphical chart or diagram d. on a computer screen
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: p217-218
31. Two of the most common graphical charting techniques are ____.
a. vertical charts and horizontal charts
b. line charts and series charts
c. bar charts and pie charts
d. printed charts and screen charts
MULTIPLE RESPONSE
1. Which of the following are techniques used by developers to evaluate the effectiveness and usability of
user interface designs. (Choose two)
a. Focus early on users and how they work
b. Statistically analyze test and use data
c. Use iterative techniques
d. Involve users in design meetings
e. Use formal modeling techniques
f. Conduct focus groups
ANS: B, F PTS: 2 REF: p190
2. When the layout and the formats is being designed for the screens for desktop systems (non Web
systems), there are several critical issues. Which of the following are considered to be important
considerations? (choose two)
a. Performance and load speed
b. LAN Connectivity
c. Consistency across screens
d. Input validation
e. Screen size
f. Fonts and colors
ANS: C, F PTS: 1 REF: p202

3. When the user interface is being designed for Web based systems, there are several important
considerations. Which of the following are included in those particularly important issues? (Choose
two)
a. Web Connectivity
b. Performance and load speed
c. Pictures, Video and Sound
d. Programming language
e. Server speeds and capabilities
f. HTML standards
ANS: B, C PTS: 1 REF: p205
4. When designing the user interface for handheld devices there are several important issues critical for
only those devices. Which of the following are considered to be important issues? (Choose two)
a. Battery power consumption
b. Memory limitations
c. Custom apps versus Web apps
d. Speed and throughput
e. Screen size
f. 3G or 4G network
ANS: D, E PTS: 1 REF: p207
COMPLETION
1. The _______ describe the inputs and outputs that require no or minimal human intervention.
ANS:
system interfaces
system interface
PTS: 2 REF: p189
2. The _______ are inputs and outputs that directly involve a system user.
ANS:
user interfaces
user interface
PTS: 2 REF: p189
3. The ____________________ is everything the end user comes into contact with while using the
system–physically, perceptually, and conceptually.
ANS: user interface
PTS: 2 REF: p189
4. What is the term used for design techniques that embody the view that the user interface is the entire
system.
ANS:
user-centered design

user centered design
User-centered design
PTS: 2 REF: p189
5. The degree to which a system is easy to learn and to use is called _______.
ANS:
usability
useability
PTS: 2 REF: p190
6. When the appearance of a specific control suggests its function, that is called _______.
ANS: affordance
PTS: 2 REF: p193
7. When a control provides immediate feedback to a user, such as when a button shows it has been
clicked, that is called _______.
ANS: visibility
PTS: 2 REF: p193
8. A technique to create a sequence of sketches of the display screen during a dialog is called _____.
ANS:
storyboarding
storyboard
PTS: 2 REF: p200
9. A type of text box input control that only contains a set of predefined data values is called a ______.
ANS: list box
PTS: 2 REF: p202
10. A type of text box that contains a set of predefined values but also allows the user to enter new values
is called a ______.
ANS: combo box
PTS: 2 REF: p203
11. A type of input control where the user can select only one item from a group of items.
ANS: radio button
PTS: 2 REF: p203

12. A type of input control that allows the user to select multiple items within a group of items is called
_______.
ANS:
check boxes
check box
PTS: 2 REF: p203
13. What is the term used to describe a Web page encoding standard that enables the page look-and-feel to
dynamically change?
ANS:
Cascading style sheets
Cascading style sheets (CSS)
CSS
PTS: 2 REF: p204
14. Software that adapts the user interface to the special needs of persons with disabilities, such as the
visual or hearing impaired, is called _______.
ANS:
assistive technologies
assistive technology
PTS: 2 REF: p207
15. What is the term used to describe the character sequences such as <name> that serve as the endpoints
for a defined group of textual characters?
ANS:
XML tags
XML
PTS: 2 REF: p209
16. A user-interface output design technique that allows a user to select a summary field and view the
supporting details is called _______.
ANS:
drill down
drill-down
PTS: 2 REF: p216
ESSAY
1. List and briefly describe at least four of the eight important User-Interface Design Concepts for the
overall design of the user interface.
ANS:

1. Affordance and Visibility -- This means that controls should be visible and their shape should be
similar to the function they perform (affordance). They should also provide visible feedback as
things occur. For example a small diskette means “save” and it changes color after a document has
been saved.
2. Consistency - User interface screens or pages should have the same look and feel across all
screens/pages. The location of similar function buttons or icons should be consistent across the entire
application.
3. Shortcuts -- Power users soon like to be able to work rapidly by having shortcuts. One powerful
way is to allow users to set up their own shortcut keys.
4. Feedback -- Icons and buttons should give and indication when they are working and when they
have completed a task.
5. Dialogs that yield closure -- Let the user know when something is complete. Give a message such as
“credit card accepted” or “transaction complete.”
6. Error handling -- Provide clear error messages and if possible some hint or instruction on how to fix
the error for input types of errors.
7. Easy reversal of actions -- All users make mistakes and need to be able to “back up.” Note: some
Apple functions to automatic save, so that without an “undo” function it is hard to revert back.
8. Reducing Short-Term Memory load -- A user should never have to write something down to
remember it from page to page. Carry information over when necessary and make it visible for the
users.
PTS: 5 REF: p193-197
2. 2. When designing user interface pages there are four special considerations for Web Browser User
Interfaces. Briefly discuss each of these special considerations.
ANS:
1. Consistency -- Although it is true of all user interface screens, it is especially important for Web
pages. The difficulty lies in that different browsers will display the same page differently. Tools
such as CSS files can assist in formatting pages consistently.
2. Performance considerations -- Since all pages must be transmitted across the Internet, the bandwidth
and amount of information sent can cause degradation and poor response time for the user. Designers
must balance between powerful, user friendly pages, and keeping the amount of data sent to a
minimum.
3. Pictures, video, sound -- Two issues here. These files tend to be very large so that there can be
considerable delay. To view or listen to pictures, video and sound often requires special plugins for
the browsers. Different browsers, i.e. PC versus Apple versus Unix often will have different methods
to display.
4. Users with disabilities -- Since Web based systems are meant for the general public, this includes
many people with disabilities. Additional consideration should be given to accommodate the needs of
these people and provide assistive technology capabilities when possible.
PTS: 5 REF: p205-207
3. Briefly describe each of the four metaphors for designing the Human-Computer Interface.
ANS:
1. Direct manipulation metaphor - Manipulating objects on a display that look like physical objects
(pictures) or that represent them (icons)
2. Desktop metaphor - Organizing visual display into distinct regions, with a large empty workspace in
the middle and a collection of tool icons around the perimeter
3. Document metaphor - Visually representing the data in files as paper pages or forms. These pages
can be linked together by references (hyperlinks)

4. Dialog metaphor - The user and computer accomplishing a task by engaging in a conversation or
dialog by using text, voice, or tools, such as labeled buttons
PTS: 5 REF: p191

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window, a little bowed. Uncertain and embarrassed by the presence
of May Ford, Lucio had not dared to approach Lilian; but at last,
unable to resist, he drew near to her, calling her twice, and touching
her hand and the roses, and then he perceived that the roses were
bedewed with tears. He bent towards her ear and said in a firm
voice:
"Lilian, you mustn't cry; you mustn't suffer."
Simply and courageously she ceased to weep, smiled a moment, and
replied:
"That is true. I mustn't cry and I mustn't suffer."

Systems Analysis and Design in a Changing World 6th Edition Satzinger Test Bank

CHAPTER XVIII
In the rather gloomy ante-chamber, papered as it was in old green
myrtle, and austerely furnished in dark carved wood, the electric
light was lit, but shaded by a milky, opaque globe. Francesco, the
valet, silent, discreet, correct as usual, helped his master, Lucio
Sabini, to take off his coat and freed him of hat, stick, and gloves.
Lucio entered with a more than ever tired and bored appearance,
with a pale and contracted face. In a quick, colourless voice he
asked:
"Are there any letters?"
"One; I put it on the small table."
Lucio Sabini experienced a fleeting hesitation before he entered his
own apartment, which was a vast room where the shade of dusk
was spreading from three broad windows, two of which looked out
on the Lungarno Serristori and the third on to a little square, so that
the dark red, green, and maroon of the roomy, deep furniture—arm-
chairs and sofas in English leather—merged into the single tint of
shadow, and mixed with the mahogany, with an occasional gilt fillet,
of the large bookcases and big and little tables. Here and there only
the whiteness of a china vase, the gleam of a silver figure, the
brightness of a statue of Signa's were to be distinguished. But in
spite of the gloom which the dying day at the end of February
caused in the room, the oblong envelope of the letter shone clearly.

Slowly he advanced amongst the furniture, making for a large arm-
chair behind the writing-table, without lifting his eyes from the
whiteness of the letter. He threw himself into the chair, overcome,
holding the letter before him without touching it—and some minutes
passed thus. Suddenly he gave a start, sat up in his chair, put his
hand on a switch, and the electric light was lit in three or four large
lamps. Without touching it he saw that which he had guessed in the
half-light, Lilian Temple's writing and the envelope without a stamp.
"She is here ... she is here——" he stammered, growing very pale,
and speaking aloud.
His twitching hands touched the letter, but still without opening it:
beneath the envelope he found a long, narrow visiting-card. The
card said: "Miss May Ford," and in fine handwriting in pencil: "Will
return." He let his head sink on the arm of the chair as he held the
card in his fingers, which almost let it fall, and lapsed into thought
for some moments in the silence of the room. Mechanically he rang
the bell and started on seeing Francesco almost immediately before
him on the other side of the desk.
"This letter was brought by hand, wasn't it?" he murmured, looking
at the servant as if he saw him not.
"Yes, Excellency. It was left with the visiting-card."
"By whom?"
"By a lady, Excellency."
"A lady ... was she young?"
"No, Excellency."
"Was she alone?"
"Alone, Excellency."
"At what time?"
"At four o'clock."
"And what did you tell her?"

"That your Excellency usually returned about half-past six and nearly
always went out about eight to dinner."
"Ah!" exclaimed Lucio Sabini.
With a gesture he dismissed the man. Scarcely was he gone when
Lucio rose, a prey to a vain agitation; he went up and down the
room as if seeking something he found not, but without really
looking for it; he gazed around with dazed eyes, as if to question the
farthest corners of the vast room, he stumbled against some piece
of furniture without being aware of it, and touched two or three
objects without seeing them, replacing them where he had found
them. Inevitably he returned to his writing-table, his glance settled
on the closed envelope without the stamp, over which spread Lilian
Temple's large, flexible handwriting.
"She is here ... she is here——" he exclaimed desperately. Twice he
took the letter, turned it over, made as if to open it with a rapid,
despairing gesture; the second time he threw it down on the table
as if it burnt him. He passed into the adjacent room, his bedroom,
and turned on the light. The room seemed rather gay with its bright
and fresh-coloured Liberty silk, bright brass bed, fine lace curtains
and partières, and the lacquered wood of soft grey. He made for a
small desk, opened its largest drawer and drew it forth. It was full of
Lilian Temple's letters, written on fine sheets of foreign paper, very
voluminous in character, which were crossed horizontally and
vertically. Beneath them a large envelope was hidden where surely
would be a portrait, or perhaps several portraits, of Lilian Temple;
but quite in the front of the drawer there was a large bundle of
unopened letters, like the one he had left on his writing-table in the
salotto. With a slightly trembling hand he pushed back all the leaves
which were issuing in confusion from their opened envelopes and
passed them to the back, hiding especially the large wrapper with
the photograph, from which he averted his eyes. He separated all
the unopened letters, and counted them twice, as if he thought that
he was mistaken. There were fourteen. Fourteen letters from Lilian
Temple which he had not opened: he looked at the one which

seemed the oldest in date, and he seemed to read on the English
stamp the date of the 26th of December. In three months Lilian had
written him fourteen letters which he had not read, because he had
not opened them; and the last ones he had thrown away so rapidly
without looking at them that he had not even the stamp or date of
departure. For some moments he stood by the open drawer. An
agonising uncertainty was to be read on his face: two or three times
he made as if to take the closed packet of letters and open one, or
some, or all of them; but two or three times he hesitated and
repented. At last he shrugged his shoulders roughly, pushed back
the drawer and closed it. A dull noise at his shoulder made him turn
round:
"Miss Ford is asking from the 'Savoy' if Signor Lucio Sabini has
returned, and if he can receive her at once," demanded Francesco.
"Did you reply that I had returned?" asked Lucio, biting his lips a
little.
"I replied that your Excellency had returned," said Francesco, "but
nothing else."
"Say that I am expecting Miss Ford at once."
Dazed, he passed a hand over his forehead, as if wishing to resume
the direction of his tumultuous thoughts: he strove to impress there
an energy that should arouse his lost will. But his thoughts and will
lost themselves in great tumult and disorder around this idea, these
words:
"If she were to come too; if she were to come with her."
Like an automaton he passed again into his room. With a rapid
gesture he hid the unopened letter, the fifteenth, the last from
Florence. He moved some chairs to occupy his hands; for a moment
he leant with his burning forehead against the glass of his bookcase,
hiding his face. But the sound of the bell in the anteroom startled
him from his abandonment.

He jumped up, composed and tranquil, advanced to the door, and
bowed deeply to Miss May Ford, who entered, announced by
Francesco. Kissing the grey-gloved hand which the Englishwoman
extended to him, he led her to a chair and sat down opposite her,
turning his shoulders to the large lamp on the writing-table so as not
to show his face. Dressed in grey with a black hat, Miss May Ford
showed an imperturbable face, whence had escaped every
expression of the amiability of a former time—a tranquil, cold,
imperturbable face.
"Welcome to Florence, Miss Ford."
"How do you do, Signor Sabini? Are you quite well?"
"Yes—thanks."
"Have you been keeping well?"
"No," he murmured, "I have been indisposed for some time, for a
month."
"Oh, dear," exclaimed Miss Ford, with a conventional intonation of
regret. "I hope you are all right now."
"I am all right now, thanks," replied Lucio coldly, perceiving that she
did not believe him.
They exchanged a rapid glance. He was the first, with an effort of
will, to question her:
"Are you alone, Miss Ford?"
"How alone?" she asked, pretending not to understand.
"Isn't your travelling companion with you?" he asked, with difficulty
suppressing his emotion.
"She is not with me," she replied coldly.
"Isn't she in Florence?" he asked again, unable this time to conceal
his anxiety.
For a moment Miss Ford hesitated. Then she replied again:

"She is not in Florence."
"Ah," he exclaimed, with a deep sigh, "and where is she?"
Miss Ford scrutinised him with a long glance: then she said:
"Don't you know where Lilian Temple is?"
Beneath that glance, and at those words, he was lost and showed
his loss. He stammered:
"I don't know: how could I know?"
"But you ought to know," added Miss Ford, looking at him.
"That is true; perhaps I ought to know," he replied, without
understanding what she said.
"In her letters she always told you what she was doing, and where
she was going," added the old maid, in a firm, precise tone.
"Yes," he replied, throwing her a desperate glance.
Miss Ford lowered her face behind her black veil and became silent,
as if she were gathering together her ideas. Confronted with her,
silent and convulsed, Lucio Sabini waited for her words, incapable of
saying anything unless he were asked. Then she asked him calmly,
with cold courtesy:
"Will you be so good as to answer a few of my questions, Signor
Sabini?"
He looked at her; and his eyes, the eyes of a man who had lived,
enjoyed, and suffered much, almost besought her to have mercy.
She averted hers naturally and asked:
"Do you remember that you left us, Signor Sabini, on the 20th of
September? Do you remember that you told Lilian—the last words
on the companion-way of the steamer as you were leaving—that you
expected her soon, as soon as possible, in Italy?"
What anguish there was in the man's eyes which were fixed
pleadingly on the woman, as if to beseech her to spare him that
cup; what anguish as he bowed assent.

The Englishwoman continued coldly: "Afterwards she wrote to you
very often from England. You replied promptly and often in long
letters. Is that so?"
"It is so," he answered, in a weak voice.
"I don't know Lilian's letters or yours. I know that you always wrote
that you wished to see her again, that you would come to England
or that she should come to Italy. Is that true?"
"It is true," the man consented, weakly.
There was an instant of silence.
"Later," resumed Miss Ford, "you began to reply less frequently, and
more curtly. At last you spoke no more of your journey to England
nor of Lilian's to Italy."
"I spoke no more of it," he consented, with bowed head.
"Finally you ceased to write to Lilian. It is three months since you
have written to her."
"It is three months," he said, like a sorrowful echo.
Miss May Ford made her inquiry with perfect composure and
courtesy, without any expression manifesting itself on her face,
without any expression passing into her voice. Only she kept her
eyes on those of Lucio's, her limpid, proud English eyes, which spoke
truth of soul and sought it in the sad, furtive eyes of Lucio Sabini.
"Then," resumed the Englishwoman, "as my young friend had no
reply to her letters, and as I was here in Florence, she begged me to
come and find you and to ask you for this reply."
"Have you come on purpose?" he asked disconsolately. "Did you
make the journey on purpose?"
"Oh, no!" replied Miss Ford at once, punctiliously. "Not on purpose! I
am here for my pleasure, and my friend sent me to you for an
answer."

"But what answer? Whatever answer can I give Lilian Temple, Miss
Ford?" the man cried, in great agitation.
"I don't know. You ought to know, Signor Sabini," she replied boldly.
"An answer, I suppose, to her last letter."
"Which last letter? Which?"
"That of to-day: that which I brought you," concluded Miss Ford
simply.
He leant forward for a moment in his chair, then fell back suddenly,
overcome. And the sad confession escaped almost involuntarily from
his lips:
"I haven't read it."
"You haven't read it, Signor Sabini?" asked Miss Ford, with her first,
fleeting frown.
"I haven't read it," he again affirmed, with bowed head.
"Oh!" only exclaimed Miss Ford, in a tone of marvel and incredulity.
Lucio rose; with trembling hands he sought in his writing-table, took
the closed letter and showed it to the Englishwoman.
"Here it is, untouched. I haven't read it; I haven't opened it."
"Why?" asked May Ford coldly.
"Through fear, through cowardice," exclaimed Lucio Sabini crudely.
Miss Ford was silent, with lowered eyes; her gloved hands grasped
the handle of her umbrella. And Lucio, deciding to stretch, with his
cruel hands, the wound from which his soul was bleeding,
continued:
"Through fear and cowardice I did not open this letter to-day from
Lilian Temple, as I have not done for nearly three months—please
understand me—I have opened none. You do not believe me? It is
not credible? I will fetch her letters."

Convulsively he vanished into the other room and reappeared
immediately with the fourteen sealed letters and threw them into
Miss Ford's lap.
"There they are. They are all I have received since December: I
haven't read them, I tell you, nor opened them. It is abominable,
but it is so; it is grotesque, but it is so! I am a man, I am thirty-five,
I have seen death, I have challenged death, but I have never dared
for three months to open a letter from Lilian. I have no longer had
the courage. In fact, the abominable cruelty in not reading what she
wrote me, the infamy and grotesqueness of not opening the
envelopes, the ignoring of which I believed myself incapable, the
cruelty for which I hate and despise myself, I have done through
fear and cowardice and through nothing else. Do you understand
me?"
Slowly Miss Ford took the letters, one by one, read their addresses,
and placed them one on the other in order. Raising her head, she
asked, with great, even greater coldness:
"Fear? Cowardice?"
"Yes! Through fear of the suffering caused to myself and others,
through not wishing to suffer or know suffering, or see, or measure
the sufferings of others."
"Suffering? Sorrow?" again asked the cold voice of the
Englishwoman.
"I suffer like one of the damned, Miss Ford," he added gloomily.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, with colourless intonation.
"And Lilian also suffers! Isn't it true that she suffers?"
"Yes, I believe she suffers," exclaimed Miss Ford, glacially.
By now she had made a pile of the fourteen sealed letters, and
raising her head she said to Lucio Sabini:
"Must I take back all these letters, then, to my friend, so that she
may see and understand, Signor Sabini? Give me the last as well and

I will go."
And she made as if to rise and depart with her pile of letters,
without further remark.
"Then Lilian is here?" cried Lucio Sabini, drawing near to the English
lady, again convulsed. "She is here. Tell me that she is here."
Miss Ford hesitated a moment.
"No, Lilian is not here," she affirmed tranquilly.
"Ah, if only she were here, if only she were here!" he cried, hiding
his face in his hands.
"Would you look for her, Signor Sabini? Would you see her? Would
you speak with her?"
As one in a dream he looked at the Englishwoman: and at each
question his face, contracted by his interior anguish, seemed
discomposed.
"No," he replied in a slow, desolate voice. "No, I would not seek her
out; I would not see her; I would not speak with her."
"Ah!"
"I must never see Lilian Temple again," he added, opening his arms
desolately.
"Never again, Signor Sabini?"
"Never again."
"But why?"
He made a despairing but resolute movement.
"I am not free, Miss Ford."
"You have a wife?" and the Englishwoman's voice seemed slightly
ironical.
"No, I haven't a wife; but I am even more tied and bound than if I
had one."

"I don't know; I don't understand," she said.
"One sometimes leaves and deserts a wife. A lover is much more
difficult. Sometimes it is impossible. It is impossible for me: I am a
slave for ever."
He spoke harshly and brutally; but as if he were using such
harshness and brutality against himself. In the light dimmed by the
shades, it seemed as if a slight blush had spread over Miss Ford's
pale face. The glaciality of her voice diminished: it seemed crossed
by a subtle current of emotion, where also there was
embarrassment, stubbornness, and pain. Miss May's questions were
slower and more timid, more hesitating in some words, more broken
with short silences, as if she had scarcely resumed the interrogation.
Lucio's replies were precise, rough, gloomy, as if directed to a
mysterious inquisitor of his soul, as if to his very own conscience.
"Isn't this person, this woman, free?"
"She is another's wife. Together we have betrayed a man's
confidence."
"Do you adore this woman?"
"I adored her ten years ago. Now I adore her no more; but I am
hers for ever."
"Then you love her very much?"
"I loved her with an ardent love. Now I no longer love her; but I am
her slave."
"Does she love you?"
"She did adore and love me; but now no longer. Though without me
she could not live."
"Are you sure?"
"I am sure. Beatrice Herz would prefer death to being deserted."
"But why?" exclaimed the Englishwoman, moved at last.
"Because we committed the sin of adultery."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, blushing furiously, and with a gesture that
asked to be told no more.
"Ah, I beg your pardon, Miss Ford," exclaimed Lucio with a new
exaltation, "I beg your pardon, if I offend your chastity and
scandalise your modesty. But since you are here, Miss Ford, and
since I shall not see you again, or again have before me a good,
upright soul like yours, and since you will never again see the wretch
before you, let me tell you, in the bitterest, most terrible words, all
my horrible misery! Miss May, God is right, religion is right; one must
not commit adultery. He who commits this fascinating sin pollutes his
life indelibly, destroys his happiness, sows ashes in his heart, and
gathers the fruits of the Dead Sea and poison. One must not commit
adultery. Ten years ago Beatrice Herz was so beautiful: I was so
passionate! The intoxication that joined us and exalted was so
incomparable! Ah, don't draw back, I beg of you; listen to me to the
end. I don't wish to exalt error, but blame it; I wish not to raise up
sin, but vilify it; I do not wish to tell to myself, now too late, what an
abomination was that fraud, what a shame that betrayal; I only wish
to cry out to others, unconscious, trusting blindly in themselves,
what a death in love, what a death in life is adultery. We loved each
other for a year, Beatrice and I; but for this year we threw away our
youth, our happiness, our liberty. A year of sin, Signorina, is a year
of servitude, of misery, of shame. Ah, I have never so much cursed
and execrated my sin as when Lilian Temple appeared to me."
May Ford trembled, and started: her attention seemed more intense.
"Lilian! Lilian!" he exclaimed, rising, as if in a vision, as if holding out
his arms to a phantom; "a creature of twenty, of rare beauty, all
delicacy and grace; a loyal heart, proud and sweet, like a precious
treasure opened for me; a loving, pure soul, a flower of freshness
and virginity. Purity and candour, love and ardour together—Lilian!
Lilian! To me this creature came full of every fascination; to me she
came with her eyes that in their blueness opened to me the way of
heaven, with her lips that smiled at me and called me, with hands
that were stretched out to me laden with every gift, her beautiful

hands that wished to give me everything, even the very hands
themselves; to walk with her for ever, step by step, until death.
Lilian! Lilian! You who came to me to be mine, you who were given
to me by God, you who were mine—Lilian.... And I believed that I
could deserve you, that I could have you; Lilian, whom I gathered
that you might be my bride, my companion, my good—so I
believed."
Like a child, Lucio Sabini threw himself on a sofa, his head buried in
his arms, as he wept and sighed.
Miss May Ford rose and went to him, but without bending or
touching him, she said anxiously:
"Why are you crying?"
He jumped up and raised his head, showing a face convulsed with
grief and furrowed by tears.
"I weep because I have been deceived, because I am profoundly
disillusioned; because I deceived an innocent girl, because I lied to
myself, in suddenly believing myself free to love and be loved;
because I erred, believing that there was still time to live, to live
again—while it was too late."
"Too late?"
"Yes. Sin has devastated me; sin has reduced me to slavery. I am
not worthy of freedom, of love—of Lilian."
"And what must dear Lilian do?" And at the adjective Miss Ford's
voice trembled for an instant.
"She must forget me. She must! Tell her that I am too old for her at
twenty; that I am as arid as pumice-stone; that I have neither
youth, nor health, nor strength, nor joy to offer her beauty, her
fascination, and her goodness; that I am no longer capable of love,
or enthusiasm, or fidelity, or devotion. Tell her all that! She must
forget me—she must. I am a ruined, devastated, dead being;
nothing could arouse me. Tell her that! Let her forget me; let her
forget the man who is undeserving of her, who has never deserved

her; let her forget the being who has scorched his existence at every
flame; let her forget the man who has neither faith, nor courage, nor
hope—let her forget me. Tell her who I am and what I am. Tell her
even worse things, that she may forget me."
"She will not believe me," replied Miss Ford slowly. "Thus she did not
know you in the Engadine."
"The man of the Engadine was a phantom," again cried Lucio
excitedly. "He was a phantom, another myself, Miss May; another—
he of ten years ago—of once upon a time, a phantom that felt itself
born again, living again, having form and substance, blood and
nerves, being full of immense hope and certainty. In that wondrous
land, and beside a wondrous creature, in the presence of an
indescribable beauty of things and the perfect beauty of a girl,
amidst the flatteries of light, and air, and flowers, of the fragrance,
glances, and smiles of a dear lady, that phantom had to become a
man again, had to be the man of formerly, strong in sentiment,
strong in desire, strong in the new reason for his life. He had to be;
he had to be! Who would not have cancelled ten years of sin and
slavery in an hour, in a minute, up there amidst everything lofty and
pure, white and proud, beside a soul so pure and ardent as Lilian's?
Who would not have been another being? Who would not have
honestly believed he was another being? She knew a phantom—tell
her that! He has vanished, with every false, fleeting form of life, with
all his hopes and desires. The wretched phantom vanished in a
moment."
"When?"
"On the pier at Ostend, while your boat, as it cleaved the mist, bore
you back to England."
Exhausted, frightened, he fell back on the sofa, and scarcely
breathed. Standing silently and thoughtfully, Miss May Ford seemed
to be waiting for the last words. He raised his head. The tears were
dried on his flushed cheeks.

"Tell her to forget me," he resumed in a hard voice, "to fall in love
with someone as young as she is, with an honest young Englishman,
sane of spirit as she is; with a young Englishman, loving and pure as
she is. Let her fall in love with this Englishman, and marry him."
"I do not know if she can do that, Signor Sabini."
"Do you believe that she will not succeed in forgetting me?" he
asked, again in anguish.
"I do not know," she replied, shaking her head. "I do not know all
the depths of her heart."
"Do you think she loves me very much? That she loves me too
much?" he asked with emotion, taking her hands.
"I am ignorant as to how much she loves you. She has not told me.
We don't discuss these things in England," added Miss Ford quickly.
"Six weeks together," he murmured thoughtfully, "only six weeks,
and a girl of twenty. It is impossible for her to be too much in love
with me."
"Let us hope so, if only we may hope so," replied Miss Ford.
"I hope so, I believe it; it must be so. Lilian must be loved by
another; she must be happy with another, and forget her shadow of
love in the Engadine, her phantom of the Engadine."
The colloquy was ended. The last words came from the lips of the
quiet, good Englishwoman.
"Won't you now content my friend, Signor Sabini? Won't you give me
a reply to her letter? To the letter I brought you to-day?"
Uncertainly and anxiously he took the letter which remained
abandoned on the writing-table. With a rapid movement he tore
open the envelope. It contained the following few words in English:
"My love; tell me if you ever loved me, if you still love me. I shall
always love you.—LILIAN."

Lucio read aloud the few simple, frank words, the tender question,
the deep promise. And all the amorous life of the Engadine
reappeared to him, in all its most intimate and invincible attraction.
His whole soul reeled, his heart broke.
"Tell her how much I loved her, Miss May; tell her how much I still
love her; that far-away and all the time I shall always be hers. Tell
her that; it is the truth. I have never deceived her. That is the
answer, the only answer."
Thus he besought May Ford, with anxious eyes and trembling lips, in
a cry that arose from the innermost depths of his heart, that the cry
might reach even to Lilian.
"I can't tell her that," replied Miss Ford gravely, "I will not tell her
that."
"But why not; if it be the truth? Why not?"
"If I tell her, Signor Sabini, she can never forget you, she will never
cease to love you. She must never know that you love her."
"Indeed, indeed!" he replied sadly, "and how could she ever
understand, she who is innocent, simple, and pure, that I can love
her and yet fly from her; that I can love her and remain with
Beatrice Herz? That is my inexorable condemnation—Lilian can never
understand."
"Signor Sabini, tell me the only thing necessary for her to forget;
something short and convincing that can turn Lilian."
Miss Ford sighed, as if she had talked too much and expressed too
much.
"One thing only, then," said Lucio Sabini firmly. "You shall tell her
simply that a woman has been mine for ten years, that she has
loved me very much, and keeps me as if it were her life itself, and
that if I left her she would die. I remain with her so that she may
not die."
"Must I say that she would die?"

"You must say that. If Lucio Sabini were to desert Beatrice Herz she
would kill herself."
"She would kill herself; very good."
Bowing composedly to Lucio, Miss May Ford turned her back and left
with calm steps.
On the following day Lucio Sabini hovered round the precincts of the
Savoy Hotel like a child, turning his back if he saw a carriage leaving
or arriving, disappearing into a shop if he saw the omnibus full of
travellers leaving, vanishing into an adjacent street whenever he saw
a lady or two ladies leaving or entering. He did not see Miss May
Ford either leave or enter at any time, and he dared not enter the
vestibule of the hotel to ask if she had left, or were leaving soon. He
ended by withdrawing, and almost flying from the neighbourhood of
the hotel, where his soul indicated to him the presence of Lilian
Temple. In the tepid, odoriferous hour of sunset, he went to the
Cascine, drove, as every day, to the Viale Michelangelo, and at every
carriage he met, in which from afar he seemed to perceive two
ladies, he trembled, jumped up, and was about to tell his coachman
to turn round. Those who greeted him in that sunset were not
recognised by him; she for whom he had sacrificed Lilian Temple
waited for him in vain towards half-past six, for the very short daily
visit which he paid her to take the orders for the evening. At nine in
the evening he was beneath the portico of the Florence railway
station, hidden behind the farthest of the columns which support it,
watching the arrival of the travellers' carriages and hotel omnibuses
for the departure of the express to Bologna and Milan in connection
with the Gothard train for France. It still wanted three-quarters of an
hour; every five minutes he drew out his watch nervously. His eyes
watched, in the obscurity, the corner of Santa Maria Novella, whence
the carriages and omnibuses reach the station; at some moments
his impatience had no bounds. However, he kept himself closely

hidden behind the pillar with the collar of his overcoat raised, as if
he were cold, and with the rim of his black hat lowered over his
eyes; only his eyes lived ardently within him, through his scorched
soul, which waited, invoked, and knew that Lilian was about to
appear. Twice Miss Ford had denied Lilian's presence in Florence,
but, like all Englishwomen who know not how to tell a lie, she had
hesitated for a moment before pronouncing the lie. All Lucio's mind
palpitated with the anxiety of waiting behind the pillar, because he
was now sure that Lilian Temple would appear from one moment to
another. Suddenly he felt himself wrapped in a double impetus of joy
and sorrow, because Lilian Temple with Miss Ford had descended at
fifty paces distance from him, from the omnibus of the Savoy Hotel.
Seeing her, recognising and watching her, he heard a voice within
him, speaking in his ear, as if a living being were speaking beside
him, so much so that, frightened, he turned round as he heard the
words, to seek whomsoever could have uttered them:
"Lilian loves you; you love her. Take her in your arms, and fly with
her."
Step for step Lilian followed her friend and guardian, May Ford, who
was seeing to the details of departure, while they exchanged neither
a word nor a nod. From his hiding-place behind the pillar, Lucio saw
Lilian's slender, fine figure outlined in her black travelling-dress, that
he knew so well, the travelling-dress she had worn when they left
the Engadine together for Berne and Basle. From his hiding-place he
saw Lilian's blond head beneath her black hat with the white
feather; but, owing to the distance, and the thick white veil she
wore, as on that other journey when they left the Engadine, he
could hardly make out her face. But neither in her hands nor at her
waist was she carrying flowers as then: her hands weakly held a
little travelling valise and a slender umbrella. But she had no flowers.
Seeing this, Lucio heard, like a whisper in his ears, the voice again
telling him:
"She is leaving; go with her."

The two English ladies now entered the long, narrow vestibule of the
station, covered with glass, and disappeared from Lucio's eyes. He
withdrew from the pillar, and began to follow them from a distance,
as side by side, and without speaking, they went through the
vestibule. From the distance it seemed to Lucio that now and then
Lilian bowed her head on her breast; but he could not observe very
well, owing to the crowd that came between them. Miss Ford bought
a book and a paper from the bookstall; she was lost for a few
moments as she chose them, while Lilian waited at a little distance,
her face almost invisible behind her white veil, as she leaned with
both her hands on the handle of her umbrella, as if she were tired.
The ladies withdrew towards the first-class waiting-room; Lucio
followed them, keeping his distance. They did not sit down, and he
kept behind the glass door, as he peeped inside. Lilian Temple's deep
silence, even if she liked silence, even if the two companions were
gladly silent, overwhelmed him, as being the sign of something
mysterious that kept her closed within herself, since she was now
incapable of telling anything of what she felt to anyone.
The two ladies noticing the opening of the doors for departure, went
out on to the platform, and proceeded to the train, which was to
take them to Milan, and thence to Chiasso, France, and England.
When Lucio Sabini saw that the train was about to start, and that
the two ladies were looking for their places from carriage to
carriage, quietly and with determination, to leave and vanish from
him; when he understood that in a few minutes the dear young face
would disappear in the shadow of the night, without her having seen
him again, without his farewell; when he understood that she was
going from him, spurned, refused, almost driven away by him, he
trembled with sorrow, and almost with fear, for once again someone
seemed to be speaking in his ear, but with an even more intense and
mysterious voice:
"Don't let her leave alone; go with her."
Constrained by this sorrow, by the fear which the interior voice was
inflicting on him, he hurried his steps, and almost ran to reach the

two ladies. But a flow of people crossed his path; trucks full of
luggage intervened. When he succeeded in surmounting the
obstacles the two English ladies were already in their carriage. He
halted at a little distance, where they could not see him, and
observed that Lilian Temple was already seated behind the window.
She was silent. She did not look at the bustle of the station, she
gazed at nothing, she sought and expected no one. At last, beneath
the great electric light, Lucio almost distinguished her face beneath
the white veil. It was a composed face, with drooping eyes, but
tearless, and perhaps without any expression of sadness; a closed
mouth, without smiles, but firm and calm in its lines. A great chill
froze Lucio's heart, and rooted him to the spot, as he thought:
"She does not suffer; she is resigned and tranquil."
He remained motionless as the doors were banged to and closed
violently, while the orders for departure were transmitted briskly, and
the locomotive whistled. Without stirring, he watched the train
move, the carriage draw away where Lilian Temple sat, and the
beloved face disappear behind the white veil. Then, in the suddenly
empty station, when he was left alone, an immense bitterness
invaded him, and bitterly he thought:
"She will forget me."
That other true voice of his conscience was silent and overcome.

CHAPTER XIX
All the morning, as every day, the bell of the entrance door of
Vittorio Lante's pretty but modest apartments in Via de' Prefetti had
done nothing but ring: and his housekeeper, his only servant, an old
woman of very honest appearance, who had been settled with him
by his mother, had done nothing but announce to her master the
visits of the most diverse and strange people. This pilgrimage of
friends, acquaintances, and strangers had begun directly after
Vittorio had returned from Paris, in fact from Cherbourg, where he
had accompanied his fiancée, Mabel Clarke, and his future mother-
in-law, Annie Clarke, whence they had embarked on a colossal
transatlantic liner. Scarcely had the newspapers announced, rather
solemnly, the arrival of the Prince of Santalena, Don Vittorio Lante,
who in the spring would depart for America, where would be
celebrated, with marvellous sumptuousness, his marriage with Miss
Mabel Clarke, than those apartments, usually calm and silent, had
been invaded every day by people of all conditions and kinds. In
December Don Vittorio Lante della Scala, whom everyone now
complacently called the Prince of Santalena, although he had not yet
been able to repurchase, shall we say, the right to bear this title, had
gone to Terni to pass the feasts of Christmas and the New Year with
his mother, Donna Maria Lante della Scala, who lived in great
retirement in a few rooms of the majestic Palazzo Lante, and he did
not return until the middle of January.

Again the oddest people, known and unknown, began to overflow
the small but elegant abode of Don Vittorio, and as winter declined
to spring, the people arrived in increasing numbers and besieged
Vittorio at home. They waited for him at the door and went to look
for him in the parloir of his club, where he lunched and dined; they
ran everywhere he was wont to repair. Each morning and evening
bundles of letters arrived for him, some of which were registered
and insured to the value of a thousand and two thousand lire. One
day, in fact, he had a letter with a declared value of five thousand
lire. And all, intimate and ordinary friends, old and new
acquaintances, strangers and unknown, wrote him letters, sent him
enclosures, forwarded him documents, attracted by the immense
fortune he was about to possess in marrying Mabel Clarke with a
dowry of fifty millions—and some said a hundred millions. All desired
and wished, all asked from him, with some excuse or other, with one
pretext or another, a little part, a big part, a huge part of this fortune
which was not yet his, but which would be his within six, four, or two
months.
One sought a loan on his return from the honeymoon, a friendly
loan, nothing else, through the ties of old affection, giving no hint as
to the date or manner of repayment; someone asked a serious loan
with splendid guarantees and first mortgages; another wished to sell
him the four horses of his stage-coach; another wished to give up to
him his kennels, another a villa, a castle, a palace, a property,
another wished him to redeem from the Government an island in the
Tyrrhennian Sea to go hunting there; while another wished him to
acquire a yacht of two thousand tons.
Every day to all this were added the visits of vendors of jewels, of
linen, of fashions for men and women, of fine wines and liqueurs,
wanting him to buy from them for fabulous sums, offering all the
credit possible, to be paid for a year after the marriage, so that they
might have the honour of being his purveyors. To their visits and
letters were added those of other strange beings, small and great
inventors who asked much money to relinquish their inventions;
discoverers of wonderful secrets which they would reveal for a

consideration; girls who asked for a dowry to enable them to marry;
singers who asked to be maintained at the Conservatoire for two or
three years, the time that was necessary to become rivals of Caruso;
widows with six sons who wished to lodge three or four with him;
people out of employment who would like to follow him to America
when he went to marry; other unemployed who asked for letters of
introduction to John Clarke; adventurers who compared themselves
with him and wanted to know how he had managed to please a girl
with fifty millions; seamstresses who asked for a sewing-machine;
students who wanted him to pay their university fees. All this was
done in fantastic alternation, sometimes honest, sometimes false,
but often grotesque and disgusting; for the saraband was conducted
on a single note—money, which it is true he had not yet, as nearly
everyone knew that he was poor, but that within six months or less
he would have an immense fortune. In fact, some of the more
cynical and shameless believed that he already had money, as if
Mabel Clarke's millions, or million, or half a million, had already
reached him as a present from the future father and mother-in-law,
or from his fiancée herself. Indeed, an old mistress of a month asked
for three thousand francs which she said would be of immediate use
to her and which he could surely give her since he had so much
money from America: in exchange she offered him some love letters
which he had written her, threatening on the other hand to send
them to his fiancée in America. He who had registered his letter to
the value of five thousand lire sent him a copy of a bill of exchange
of his father's, of thirty years ago, a bill which Don Giorgio Lante had
never paid; and, as usual, the correspondent threatened a great
scandal. During the first two months this strange assault at home, at
the club, in the streets, in drawing-rooms, in fact everywhere he
went, this curious assault of avarice and greed interested and
amused him. He was supremely happy in those early days. He had
taken leave of Mabel, certain of her troth; Annie Clarke, the silent
idol, had smiled on him benevolently from the deck of the liner, and
he was sure that John Clarke would give him his daughter. At that
time he received gracious letters—a little brief it is true—from Mabel,
and still more often cablegrams—a form she preferred—of three or

four words in English, always very affectionate: and he replied at
once. He was supremely happy!
The human comedy, the human farce which bustled, not around
him, but around the money he was going to possess, was at bottom
somewhat flattering. He enjoyed all the pleasures of vanity which an
enormously rich man can have, although still poor. His nature was
simple and frank, his heart was loyal. He loved Mabel ardently and
enthusiastically; but the sense of power which he had for a short
time came pleasantly to him. Therefore he was polite to all his
morning and evening aggressors; he refused no one a hearing; he
never said no. Only with a courteous smile he postponed to later any
decision, till after the marriage or the honeymoon. Some sought for
a bond or a promise in writing; amiably and firmly he refused,
without allowing him who was so persistent to lose all hope. Vittorio
Lante was never impatient with all those who asked of him from fifty
lire to five hundred thousand, sometimes smiling and laughing as he
kept the most eccentric letters to laugh at them with Mabel in
America, when they should have some moments of leisure. In these
annoyances of wealth there was a hidden pleasure, of which for
some time he felt the impressions keenly.
Then a cablegram of the 3rd of December, from New York, told him
that John Clarke had consented. Intoxicated with joy he telegraphed
to Mabel, to Annie, even to John Clarke, and left at once for Terni, to
announce the glad tidings to his noble and gentle mother. Still soon
some shadows began to spread themselves over his life; light
shadows at first and then darker. Like lightning the news of the
betrothal of the great American millionairess with a young Roman
prince had been spread and printed everywhere in all the European
newspapers, and gradually there had begun witty and slightly
pungent comments, then rather cutting remarks. Whoever sent the
French, German, and English papers to him at Terni, to the Palazzo
Lante, which first congratulated him ironically and afterwards,
gradually complicating the news and redoubling the echoes, treated
him as a broken noble of extinct heraldry, as a dowry-hunter, a seller
of titles; whoever sent these witty, impertinent, often directly

libellous papers had marked in red and blue, with marks of
exclamation, the more trenchant remarks. Implacably, while he was
away from Rome, away from every great centre, in the solitude of
his ancient palace—with what sarcasm the ruin of this palace had
been described in the papers and the necessity for restoring it with
Papa Clarke's money!—he received whole packets of these papers
and in his morbid curiosity and offended feelings he opened all,
devouring them with his eyes, and read them through, to become
filled with anger and bitterness.
But if a tender letter from Mabel reached him at Terni, if she replied
with a tender expression to a dispatch of his, his anger calmed and
his bitterness melted. His mother saw him pass from one expression
to another, but she was unwilling to inquire too closely. With a
tender smile and gentle glance she asked him simply:
"Does Mabel still love you?"
"Always, mamma," he replied, trembling with emotion at the
recollection of the beautiful, fresh girl.
But new papers arrived and again his mind was disturbed with anger
and sorrow. He would have liked to reply to them all, with denials,
with violent words, with actions against those people of bad faith,
against the villains who had published the news, who had printed
the articles and paragraphs full of gall: he would have liked to have
picked a quarrel with the paper, cuffed the journalist and fought a
duel with him; he wished to fight a dozen duels, make a noisy
scandal, and then reduce to silence those chroniclers of slander and
calumny by giving true light to the truth of deeds. Then he hesitated
and repented of it. He tore up the letter he had begun and exercised
over himself a pacifying control. Was he right to reply to malignity,
lies, and insinuations? Was it not better to shrug the shoulders, and
let them talk and print, and smile at it all; laugh at the journalists
and despise the journals? Would not Mabel Clarke, if she had been
with him, have thought and decided so, the American girl without
prejudices, free in ideas and sentiments, incapable of allowing
herself to be conquered by conventionality and social hypocrisy?

Then he repressed and controlled himself. But in the depth of his
spirit now and then arose a second reason for silence: with
increasing bitterness he told himself that some and many of the
things had the appearance of truth, and that some of them,
moreover, were true. He loved Mabel Clarke sincerely, but it was
undeniable that it was a magnificent match for whomsoever married
her, even if he were rich, and he instead was absolutely poor. Mabel
loved him loyally, but she was the daughter of an American
merchant and he was the heir of a great name, a descendant of a
great family. Love was there, but barter in one way or another had
all the appearance of existing, and did exist. The rest, it is true, was
the malignity, insinuation, and calumny of journalists; but the barter
was undeniable, even sanctioned by ardent sympathy. What was the
use of writing, of lawsuits, of cuffing and provoking duels? It were
better to be silent and pretend to smile and laugh; in fact, in a fury
of pretence to smile and really laugh at all papers and journalists.
On reaching Rome during the first ten days of January he was
consoled by a single thought against such infamies; that Mabel on
the other side might know little or nothing of them. Letters and
telegrams continued to be always very affectionate: the marriage
ought to take place in the middle of April, but John Clarke had been
unwilling to fix a precise date. That exalted his heart and rendered
him strong against everything that was printed about the nuptials:
gradually now the papers became silent. But at home, where his
aggressors repaired more than ever, to ask whatever they could ask
from a man immensely rich, even they in the middle of their
discourses, would let slip a phrase or an allusion, that they had read
something and had been scandalised by it: how could rascals on
papers nowadays be allowed to insult such a gentleman as he was—
Don Vittorio Lante, Prince of Santalena as they knew him to be?
At each of these allusions which wounded him, even in the midst of
the adulations and flatteries of his interlocutors, he trembled and his
face became clouded: he noted that everyone knew them and
everyone had read them, that the calumnies had been spread
broadcast in every set. Even at the club, now and then, someone

with the most natural disingenuousness would ask him if he had
read such and such a Berlin paper; someone else, more friendly,
would tell him frankly how he had grieved to read an entre-filet of a
Parisian paper. Sometimes he would smile or jest or shrug his
shoulders, and sometimes he showed his secret anger. His well-
balanced, always courteous mood changed; sometimes he treated
petitioners badly and dismissed them brusquely. Such would leave
annoyed, murmuring on the stairs that as a matter of fact the
European papers had not been wrong to treat Don Vittorio Lante
della Scala as a very noble and fashionable adventurer, but still an
adventurer. He passed ten restless days in which only Mabel's letters
and telegrams came to calm him a little.
But he experienced the deepest shock when complete packets of
American papers arrived for him, voluminous, and all marked with
red and blue pencil, since each contained something about his
engagement, his marriage, his nobility, and his family. In long
columns of small type were spread out the most unlikely stories,
most offensive in their falseness; therein were inserted the most
vulgar and grotesque things at his expense, or at the expense of
Italy or Italians. It was a regular avalanche of fantastic information,
of extravagant news, of lying declarations, of interviews invented
purposely, of fictitious correspondence from Rome, and in addition to
all this the most brutal comments on this capture of an American girl
and her millions by another poor European gentleman, in order to
carry away the girl and her money, and make her unhappy, to waste
her money on other women as did all sprigs of European nobility, not
only in Italy, but wherever they had managed to ensnare an
American girl. Other marriages between rich American women and
aristocratic but poor Europeans were quoted, with their often sad
lot, conjugal separations, with their divorces, fortunes squandered in
Europe, with their souls alienated from mother and father, and every
American paper concluded that their daughters were mad and
foolish again to attempt an experience which had always succeeded
ill with them; that this miserable vanity of becoming the wife of an
English Duke, a Hungarian magnate, a French marquis or Italian

Prince should be suppressed. They should put it away: American
women should wed American men and not throw away their fresh
persons and abundant money on corrupt and cynical old Europe.
When he had read all this, Vittorio Lante was thoroughly unhappy.
The papers were old, but there were some recent ones; the latest,
those of ten or twelve days previously, breathed an even more
poisonous bitterness. By now he had learned to speak English much
better, and understood it perfectly; none of that perfidy, none of that
brutality escaped him, and all his moral sensibility grieved
insupportably, all his nerves were on edge with spasms, as he
thought that Mabel Clarke, his beloved, his wife to be, had read
those infamies from America, and had absorbed all that poison. He
would have liked to telegraph her a hundred or a thousand words, to
swear to her that they were all nauseating lies; but he repented of it
and tore up the telegram, striving to reassure himself, as he thought
that a direct and independent creature like Mabel Clarke, that a loyal
and honest friend like the American girl would laugh at and despise
the horrid things.
But by a mysterious coincidence, which made him secretly throb
with anguish, a week passed by without a letter or note, or a single
word by telegram, reaching him from New York; Vittorio passed a
fortnight of complete silence between anguish and despair. Instead,
a very broad and voluminous letter, under cover and registered,
reached him from New York, containing a long article about his
indiscretions, dated from Rome, in which it was narrated, with the
most exaggerated particulars, how Miss Mabel Clarke's fiancé in Italy
had seduced a cousin two or three years ago, how she had had a
son by him, and how he had deserted her and her little one in a
district of Lazio. Vittorio Lante, who in three weeks of silence had
written Mabel Clarke four letters, and sent three telegrams without
obtaining a reply, dying with impatience and anxiety, and hiding it
from people, felt as if a dart were passing through his heart, from
side to side, felt as if all his blood were ebbing away, and he
remained exhausted and bloodless, unable to live or die.

So that morning at the end of February all those whom Giovanna,
the faithful servant, gradually announced, since her master, pale and
taciturn, consented to receive them with an automatic nod, found a
man who received them with a silent and fleeting smile, with a rare
word as he listened but scarcely replied to them, when they had
finished expounding their ideas and propositions, as if he had
understood nothing, and perhaps had heard nothing of them. For
four or five days, with a great effort of the will, Vittorio kept up
appearances, driving back his anguish to the depths of his heart,
knowing that profound dissimulation is necessary in the world, and
that the world must see little of our joy and none of our sorrow.
That morning there filed before him a traveller for a motor-car
company who wished to make him buy three cars, of forty, sixty, and
eighty horse-power respectively, to be paid for, naturally, after the
marriage, but consignable a month previously with, of course, a
fixed contract; a kind of tatterdemalion, all anointed, who offered
him a Raphael, an authentic Raphael, for two hundred thousand lire,
and who ended by asking for two francs to get something to eat; a
gentleman of high society, who lived by the sale of old pictures,
tapestry, bronzes, and ivories, who took them from the antiquaries
and re-sold them, gaining a little or a big commission, a friend who
proposed increasing the prices, since Mabel Clarke was to pay, and
that they should both divide the difference, proposing to him, in fact,
that he should rob his future wife; a littérateur who came to seek
from him the funds to launch a review in three languages, and who
proposed to insert therein his own articles which Vittorio Lante
should sign with his name; an agent of a bankrupt exchange, known
to be unable to go on 'change, who proposed some mining affairs in
Africa for John Clarke to take up, offering him a stiff commission so
that he should transfer these uncertain shares to his father-in-law.
And, more or less, in all demands, proposals, and requests which
were made to him that morning, he perceived the intention to mock
and cheat him, but still more he discovered in many of them the
conception that he was a man of greed, who could for more or less
money deceive his wife and father-in-law, cheat and rob them, like a

sponger or society thief. Even more sorrowfully than at other times,
he trembled when he noticed the expression of lack of esteem in
which the people in his presence held him, people who dared in his
own house to propose crooked bargains, equivocal business, as they
offered him his own price!
"Am I, then, dishonoured?" he thought, with a rush of bitterness.
The morning passed and afternoon came: he was alone, and for the
third or fourth time in three or four hours he asked Giovanna if
letters or telegrams had arrived. It was an almost convulsive
demand, which he had repeated constantly for three weeks, the only
demand that showed another human being the state of convulsion in
which he found himself. Nothing came, nor that morning either,
except the newspapers, and a letter from Donna Maria Lante from
Terni, which Giovanna had at once consigned to him. He composed
his face, resumed the artless, jolly expression which had been his
worldly mask, went to lunch at the club, and replied to three or four
friends that the marriage would certainly take place in April. He
jested with everyone; he held up his head before all, but he did not
fail to observe that in questions, in compliments, in congratulations,
there was a sense of hesitation, as of a slight incredulity and a little
irony. The old Duke of Althan was very cold with him; Marco Fiore
scarcely greeted him. Hurt and very nervous, he thought:
"Am I, then, dishonoured?"
He returned home: there were no letters or telegrams. He went out
again to Calori's fencing school, and passed an hour of violent
exercise, in which he allowed to escape whatever was insupportable
in his pain; again he returned home, found nothing there, and went
out to leave cards on two or three foreign ladies, whose
acquaintance he had made the day before at a tea at the English
Ambassadress'. He wandered through Rome, and for the third time,
as if it were the way of the Cross, he repaired home, asked Giovanna
from the speaking-tube if there were anything for him. She replied
that there was a telephone message for him. Disillusioned, more
than ever pierced by anxiety, he went upstairs, took from the

landing-place the little card on which Giovanna had written the
telephone message, and read:
"A friend from America expects Don Vittorio Lante at the Grand Hotel
at half-past four to take a cup of tea. Room Number Twenty-seven."
Vittorio trembled from head to foot, like a tree shaken by the wind;
he drew out his watch convulsively. It wanted ten minutes to the
appointment; he hurled himself into a cab, trembling and controlling
himself, not noticing the streets he passed, and biting his lips at
every obstacle his carriage met. On at last reaching the vestibule of
the Grand Hotel, he threw the No. 27 to the porter. Refusing the lift,
bounding up the stairs to the first floor, he knocked at twenty-seven,
while his heart seemed to leap into his throat, suffocating him. From
within the clear, harmonious voice of Mabel Clarke said to him in
English:
"Come in!"
His face changed to a mortal pallor in her presence, as standing in
the middle of the great, bright room, full of flowers, she offered him
her hand; his too intense emotion filled his eyes with tears. He took
the hand and kissed it, while his tears fell on it.
"Oh, dear, dear old boy," murmured Mabel, moved, looking at him
affectionately and smiling.
He held the hand between his own, looked into his fiancée's eyes,
and the cry, so often repressed, was from the depth of his heart:
"Mabel, I swear to you that I am an honest man."
"Do not swear, Vittorio," she replied at once, "I know it."
"Ah, they calumniated me, they defamed me, they dishonoured me.
Mabel!" he exclaimed, falling into an arm-chair, "I swear to you that
they are lies, infamous lies."
"I know," she replied with a softness in her firm, clear voice, "that
they are lies."

"Ah, my consoler, my friend, my delight," he said, with a sigh, taking
her hands, drawing her to him, and embracing her and kissing her
on her forehead, and eyes, and cheeks.
She allowed herself to be embraced and kissed, but with a gracious
movement she freed herself from him, and they sat side by side on
one of the large sofas, beneath a great Musa plant.
"Do you still love me, Mabel?" he asked anxiously.
"I am very fond of you, dear," she replied tranquilly.
"Why have you caused me such suffering, dear, dear Mabel, in not
writing or telegraphing to me?"
"I was travelling to Rome," she explained.
"But when did you start?" he asked, already disquieted.
"Three weeks ago, dear."
"Then you have been elsewhere?" he continued, controlling his
agitation with an effort.
"Yes, elsewhere," she rejoined with a smile, but without further
explanation.
"But why didn't you warn me, dear? Why make me pass terrible
days here alone in Rome, not knowing how to vent my anger and
sorrow? Ah, what days!"
"I left unexpectedly, Vittorio."
"Unexpectedly?"
"I decided to come to Rome in search of you on the spur of the
moment. Mammy is on the other side, only Broughton accompanied
me. I am incognito, dear; no one knows that I am Mabel Clarke. I
am called Miss Broughton."
She laughed shortly. He was still more disturbed, though he did not
wish to show it. Confused and embarrassed, he looked at her,
finding her more blooming than ever in her irresistible youth, in her

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