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If Wilbraham were certain of one thing, it was that Donna Teresa ought not to be encouraged to go to the police office. He already called himself an idiot for having let her do so, but as he had never been known seriously to take himself for an idiot, this was probably no more than a figure of speech. It meant, however, that he disapproved of her conduct, and especially of her sympathy for Cesare, for even the knowledge that the last accusation was untrue had not changed his opinion of the accused. Perhaps, if anything, the annoyance had accentuated it.

Yet, the next morning, when he ran over what lay before him, he was not unwilling to admit that he should be early at Via Porta Pinciana, so as to make sure that Donna Teresa did not start on any fool’s errand without him. And with disapproval so active, he might have been more gratified than he was to hear from Mrs Brodrick that an absolutely disabling headache obliged the marchesa to leave everything in his hands.

“Please pay the fine, whatever it is, and see that he is released.”

“Better she should keep out of it,” said Wilbraham grimly.

“But she wants the man’s address.”

“Don’t let her have it,” he said unadvisedly, and then flushed, suddenly aware that he had spoken too warmly. “The marchesa is young,” he said hurriedly, “and there are bad parts in Rome, where she really ought not to go.”

“No doubt,” returned Mrs Brodrick, smiling. “But I never interfere with Teresa’s liberty, and she would like the address.”

“Certainly,” said Wilbraham, stiffening. He knew that he had gone farther than his acquaintance justified, and no one hated a false position more than he. Sylvia came into the room at this awkward moment, looking so pretty that her little froth of chatter seemed only part of the prettiness, particularly when she greeted him warmly.

“Isn’t it tiresome for Teresa? But I told her I was sure you would manage everything perfectly. I don’t see that she need be so very unhappy, because if he was not a pickpocket he might have been one, of course; it was only a mistake, and you will set everything right, won’t you?”

“I’ll do my best,” he said gravely, but secretly pleased. Mrs Brodrick turned away her eyes, and knitted impassively. She was conscious of wrong feelings when her youngest grandchild chattered, and there were times when irritation got the upper hand, and she said something scathing, the only thing which Teresa ever resented. For Teresa upheld Sylvia through thick and thin, and would cheerfully efface herself for her sister.

Wilbraham walked towards the Trevi with his temper still ruffled, so that he scarcely glanced at the great fountain dashing its wealth of waters into the sea at its base. Passing it, he plunged into a network of narrow streets leading to the questura. He did not notice two or three men, who, standing at the door of the Avanti printing office, pointed him out to each other with scarcely perceptible gestures. Reaching his destination he found official feeling running high against Cesare, who, informed of the marchesa’s gracious intention, had returned passionately that he would not accept it, he preferred prison. Until the marchesa’s expected arrival he had been remanded in confinement, and the officer was urgent that he might be left there.

“He is dangerous,” he repeated more than once.

Wilbraham was a prejudiced young man, but his English instincts for fair play rose up promptly.

“That won’t do,” he said. “You can’t lay him by the heels unless he does something to deserve it.”

The official looked at this stubborn Englishman, and wondered whether he could influence him to leave well alone by suggesting a personal danger.

“He is not unlikely to stab—some one,” he remarked.

“Then some one must look out for himself,” said Wilbraham indifferently. He understood the hint, and it amused him. “How much is the fine?” Reading continued unwillingness, he added—“A little more would be paid to ensure his being let out at once. He can’t keep his lodgings here against your will, I imagine?”

As it would have been a pity not to allow a mad foreigner the chance of getting rid of his money, the official named the sum with an added ten lire, and Wilbraham paid it with some contempt for its smallness. He was assured that Cesare would be immediately released; and then conscientiously and unwillingly obtained his address. After lingering to gain a few statistics as to crime in Rome, he went on to a watchmaker’s in the Piazza Venezia, and was returning when he met his man face to face. There was no mistaking the young passionate features or the burning eyes, and evidently Cesare recognised him as quickly. For an instant he paused, came on, held him with his gaze, and muttered “Curse you!” as he passed. Wilbraham only smiled at what seemed to him a melodramatic incident, but it made him a little more angry with Teresa for insisting upon following up so violent a character, certain to reject her good offices. He scribbled a few lines on a card, left it at the house in Porta Pinciana, and went away towards his hotel in the higher and newer part of Rome.

He was his own master, and often came to Italy, which pleased him, and where he felt himself free from certain annoyances which are apt to attach themselves to only sons, and are also occasionally imagined when they do not exist. Lady Wilbraham blamed herself now for having early uttered warnings which he had taken too dutifully to heart. He sniffed danger afar, and retired so effectually from matchmaking mothers, that it seemed likely he would never possess a mother-in-law at all. The instant it flashed upon him what might be at the root of any expressed feminine interest, no terrified mollusc could have snapped his shell more effectually. In vain they wandered round, seeking for a glimpse, in vain dinners were got up, possible meetings sought for; so resolved was he not to present the smallest loophole to the supposed attack, that he even fell into the unpardonable error of confusing his pursuers with those who had never flung a glance beyond friendliness in his direction, and of stoutly barricading himself against some who had not so much as dreamed of a siege. That is a crime which a woman never forgives. So that here, in this ultra-sensitive dread of giving himself away, lay a weakness, the more dangerous to his character because it was apt to deceive him into imagining it strength.

Lady Wilbraham was a keen-sighted woman, even where her affections were concerned, but this was not a matter in which she could offer advice, though she often bore the blame of his—what shall we call it?—dislike of becoming the prey of tongues? coldness, pride? fear of where he might unwittingly land himself? Whatever it was, it was apt to hold him in bonds, and to alienate friends, for the nice women were those who were naturally the most indignant and who scourged him with their ridicule. Yet surely his object was exemplary, since above all things he desired to avoid raising false hopes. But he was also too much afraid of himself, too much afraid of becoming interested; too much afraid of going a step beyond the point from which retreat was not only possible but natural; too much afraid of, by some mischance, getting out of hand and allowing himself to be cajoled into a road where, he was certain, the demon of vain regret would instantly bestride his shoulders. So far his heart had invariably had pride for its master, and although there were those who prophesied rebellion, the reaction was not to be counted on, since hearts may be starved into powerlessness, or paralysed by want of use.

Yet it was not marriage itself of which he disliked the idea. He was two-and-thirty, a barrister with sufficient practice, and the owner of a country seat where his mother had lived since his father’s death. He intended in a year or two to give up law, live at the Court, and stand for Parliament. Marriage entered into all these contemplations. It was the woman, not the state which he dreaded, for that vague and shadowy. She, however charming in dreams, became a terror, a warning beacon, whenever she touched reality or appeared in actual form. There was always a something to warn him off, a mother a little indiscreet, a bore of a brother, a girl who failed, by as little as you please, to reach his standard of perfection.

Of course the reason was not far to seek. He was critical, because never having been in love, he was apt to doubt whether his heart could be stirred like the hearts of other people, and certainly it had never yet been strong enough to carry him where he did not wish to go. The question as to whether it ever would be strong enough remained unanswered. And the reason and the question left one certain thing to his credit, that unless he owned that inner force he would not have the courage to marry.

Donna Teresa passed before his mental vision more than once as he walked away from the Porta Pinciana, but he dismissed her image almost angrily. Sylvia, however, Sylvia? She was pretty, and somehow or other he felt grateful to Sylvia. If she were not very wise, it just crossed his mind that he had wisdom enough for two. His shadowy She had never been extraordinarily wise.