By the porch stood Glyndon, conversing with Gionetta.

She passed him abruptly, entered the house, and, sinking on the floor, wept loud and passionately.
Glyndon, who had followed her in surprise, vainly sought to soothe and calm her.

She would not reply to his questions; she did not seem to listen to his protestations of love, till suddenly, as Nicot's terrible picture of the world's judgment of that profession which to her younger thoughts had seemed the service of Song and the Beautiful, forced itself upon her, she raised her face from her hands, and, looking steadily upon the Englishman, said, "False one, dost thou talk of me of love ?" "By my honour, words fail to tell thee how I love!" "Wilt thou give me thy home, thy name?
Dost thou woo me as thy wife ?" And at that moment, had Glyndon answered as his better angel would have counselled, perhaps, in that revolution of her whole mind which the words of Nicot had effected, which made her despise her very self, sicken of her lofty dreams, despair of the future, and distrust her whole ideal,--perhaps, I say, in restoring her self-esteem,--he would have won her confidence, and ultimately secured her love.

But against the prompting of his nobler nature rose up at that sudden question all those doubts which, as Zanoni had so well implied, made the true enemies of his soul.

Was he thus suddenly to be entangled into a snare laid for his credulity by deceivers?
Was she not instructed to seize the moment to force him into an avowal which prudence must repent?
Was not the great actress rehearsing a premeditated part?
He turned round, as these thoughts, the children of the world, passed across him, for he literally fancied that he heard the sarcastic laugh of Mervale without.