What lurking temptations to forbidden tenderness find their hiding-places in a woman's dressing-gown, when she is alone in her room at night! With her heart in the tomb of the dead Montbarry, could Agnes even think of another man, and think of love?
How shameful! how unworthy of her! For the second time, she tried to interest herself in the guide-book--and once more she tried in vain.
Throwing the book aside, she turned desperately to the one resource that was left, to her luggage--resolved to fatigue herself without mercy, until she was weary enough and sleepy enough to find a safe refuge in bed.
For some little time, she persisted in the monotonous occupation of transferring her clothes from her trunk to the wardrobe.

The large clock in the hall, striking mid-night, reminded her that it was getting late.

She sat down for a moment in an arm-chair by the bedside, to rest.
The silence in the house now caught her attention, and held it--held it disagreeably.

Was everybody in bed and asleep but herself?
Surely it was time for her to follow the general example?
With a certain irritable nervous haste, she rose again and undressed herself.

'I have lost two hours of rest,' she thought, frowning at the reflection of herself in the glass, as she arranged her hair for the night.