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How very odd! Across
something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the
palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly,
slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.
She thought: "Oh, what have I done?"
"Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes.
George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She
had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and
another held her in his arms.
They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must
have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his
knees. She repeated:
"Oh, what have I done?"
"You fainted."
"I--I am very sorry."
"How are you now?"
"Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and
smile.
"Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping."
He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it.
The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily.
The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning.


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