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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive in Italy, by Moray Dalton
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Olive in Italy
+
+Author: Moray Dalton
+
+Release Date: July 25, 2009 [EBook #29512]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVE IN ITALY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Mark C. Orton, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+      OLIVE ...
+      IN ITALY
+
+
+   BY MORAY DALTON
+
+
+   [Illustration]
+
+
+       London
+   T. FISHER UNWIN
+       MCMIX
+
+
+
+
+[_All Rights Reserved_]
+
+
+
+
+    "For in the hand of the Lord there is a cup, and the
+    wine is red; it is full mixed, and He poureth out of the
+    same. As for the dregs thereof: all the ungodly of the
+    earth shall drink them...."
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+    BOOK I.                 PAGE
+
+      SIENA                   17
+
+
+    BOOK II.
+
+      FLORENCE               115
+
+
+    BOOK III.
+
+      ROME                   213
+
+
+
+
+OLIVE IN ITALY
+
+
+
+
+BOOK I.--SIENA
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+"I believe that Olive Agar is going to tell you that she can't pay her
+bill," said the landlady's daughter as she set the breakfast tray down
+on the kitchen table.
+
+"Good gracious, Gwen, how you do startle one! Why?"
+
+"She began again about the toast, and I told her straight that you
+always set yourself against any unnecessary cooking. Meat and
+vegetables must be done, I said, but those who can't relish bread as
+it comes from the baker's, and plain boiled potatoes, can go without,
+I said. Then she says, of course I must do as my mother tells me, and
+would I ask you to step up and see her presently."
+
+"Perhaps you were a bit too sharp with her."
+
+The girl sniffed resentfully. "Good riddance if she goes," she called
+after her mother.
+
+Mrs Simons knocked perfunctorily at the dining-room door.
+
+A young voice bade her come in. "I wanted to tell you that I heard
+from my cousins in Italy this morning. I am going to stay with them
+for a little, so I shall be leaving you at the end of the week."
+
+The landlady's cold stare was disconcerting. There was a distinct note
+of disapproval in her voice as she answered, "I do not know much about
+Italy." She seemed to think it not quite a seemly subject, yet she
+pursued it. "I should have thought it was better for a young lady
+without parents or friends to find some occupation in her own
+country."
+
+Olive smiled. "Ah, but I hate boiled potatoes, and I think I shall
+love Italy and Italian cooking. You remember the Athenians who were
+always seeking some new thing? They had a good time, Mrs Simons."
+
+"I hope you may not live to wish those words unsaid, miss," the woman
+answered primly. "You have as good as sold your birthright, as Esau
+did, in that speech."
+
+"He was much nicer than Jacob."
+
+"Oh, miss, how can you! But, after all, I suppose you are not
+altogether one of us since you have foreign cousins. What's bred in
+the bone comes out in the flesh they say."
+
+"I am quite English, if that is what you mean. My aunt married an
+Italian."
+
+Mrs Simons's eyes had wandered from the girl's face to the heavy
+chandelier tied up in yellow muslin, and thence, by way of "Bubbles,"
+framed in tarnished gilt, to the door. "Ah, well, I shall take your
+notice," she said finally.
+
+She went down again into the kitchen. "I never know where to have
+her," she complained. "There's something queer and foreign about her
+for all she says. What's bred in the bone! I said that to her face,
+and I repeat it to you, Gwendolen."
+
+Mrs Simons might have added that adventures are to the adventurous.
+Olive's father was Jack Agar, of the Agars of Lyme, and he married his
+cousin. If Mrs Simons had known all that must be implied in this
+statement she might have held forth at some length on the subject of
+heredity, and have traced the girl's dislike of boiled potatoes to her
+great-great-uncle's friendship with Lord Byron, and her longing for
+sunshine to a still more remote ancestress, lady-in-waiting to a
+princess at the court of Le Roi Soleil.
+
+Adventures to the adventurous! The Agars were always aware of the
+magnificent possibilities of life and love, and inclined to ignore the
+unpleasant actualities of existence and the married state; hence some
+remarkable histories, and, in the end, ruin. Olive was the last of the
+old name. Jack Agar had died at thirty, leaving his wife and child
+totally unprovided for but for the little annuity that had sufficed
+for dress in the far-off salad days, and that now must be made to
+maintain them. Olive was sent to a cheap boarding-school, where she
+proved herself a fool at arithmetic; history, very good; conduct,
+fair; according to her reports. She was not happy there. She hated
+muddy walks and ink-stained desks and plain dumpling, and all these
+things seemed to be an essential part of life at Miss Blake's.
+
+She left at eighteen, and thereafter she and her mother lived together
+in lodgings at various seaside resorts within their means, practising
+a strict economy, improving their minds at the free library, doing
+their own dressmaking, and keeping body and soul together on potted
+meats, cocoa and patent cereals. Mary Agar rebelled sometimes in
+secret, regretting the lack of "opportunities," _i.e._, of possible
+husbands. She would have been glad to see her daughter settled. The
+Agars never used commonsense in affairs of the heart. Her own marriage
+had been very foolish from a worldly point of view, and her sister
+Alice had run away with her music-master.
+
+"In those days girls had a governess at home and finished with
+masters, and young Signor Menotti came twice a week to our house in
+Russell Square to teach Alice the guitar and mandoline. We shared
+singing and French lessons, but she had him to herself. He was very
+good-looking, dark, and rather haggard, and just shabby enough to make
+one sorry for him. When Alice said she would marry him mamma was
+furious, but she was just of age, and she had a little money of her
+own, an annuity as I have, and she went her own way. They were
+married at a registry office, I think, and soon afterwards they went
+to his home in Italy. Mamma never forgave, but Alice and I used to
+write to each other, and her eldest child was called after me. I don't
+know how it turned out. She never said she was unhappy, but she died
+after eight years, leaving her three little girls to be brought up by
+their father's sister."
+
+Olive knew little more than this of her aunt. Further questioning
+elicited the fact that Signor Menotti's name was Ernesto.
+
+"The girls are your cousins, Olive dear, and you have no other
+relations. I should like to see them."
+
+"So should I."
+
+Olive knew all about the annuity, but she had not realised until her
+mother died quite suddenly, of heart failure after influenza, what it
+means to have no money at all. She was dazed with grief at first, and
+Mrs Simons was as kind as could be expected and did not thrust the
+weekly bill upon her on the morning after the funeral, though it was
+due on that day. But lodgers are not supposed to give much trouble,
+and though death is not quite so heinous as infectious disease or ink
+spilt on the carpet it is still distinctly not a thing to be
+encouraged by too great a display of sympathy, and Olive was soon made
+to understand that it behoved her to seek some means of livelihood,
+some way out into the world.
+
+No proverb is too hackneyed to be comforting at times, and the girl
+reminded herself that blood is thicker than water as she looked among
+her mother's papers for the Menotti address. They were her cousins,
+birds of a feather. She wrote them a queer, shy, charming letter in
+strange Italian, laboriously learnt out of a grammar, and then--since
+some days must elapse before she could get any answer--she
+conscientiously studied the advertisement columns of the papers. She
+might be a nursery governess if only she could be sure of herself at
+long division, or--horrid alternative--a useful help. Mrs Simons
+suggested a shop.
+
+"You have a nice appearance, miss. Perhaps you would do as one of the
+young ladies in the drapery department, beginning with the tapes and
+thread and ribbon counter, you know, and working your way up to the
+showroom."
+
+But Olive altogether declined to be a young lady.
+
+She waited anxiously for her cousins' letter, and it meant so much to
+her that when it came she was half afraid to open it.
+
+It was grotesquely addressed to the
+
+    Genteel Miss Agar Olive,
+            Marsden Street, 159,
+                Brighton,
+              Provincia di Sussex,
+                    Inghilterra.
+
+The post-mark was Siena. It was stamped on the flap, which was also
+decorated with a blue bird carrying a rose in its beak, and was rather
+strongly scented.
+
+    "DEAR COUSIN,--We were so pleased and interested to hear
+    from you, though we greatly regret to have the news of
+    our aunt's death. Our father's sister lives with us
+    since we are orphans. She is a widow and has no children
+    of her own. If you can pay us fifteen lire a week we
+    shall be satisfied, and we will try to get you pupils
+    for English. Kindly let us know the date and hour of
+    your arrival.--Believe us, yours devotedly,
+
+                    "MARIA, GEMMA and CARMELA."
+
+Olive read it carefully twice over, and then sat down at the table and
+began to scribble on the back of the envelope. She convinced herself
+that three times fifteen was forty-five, and that so many lire
+amounted to not quite two pounds. Then there was the fare out to be
+reckoned. Finally, she decided that she would be able to get out to
+Italy and to live there for three weeks before she need call herself
+penniless.
+
+She went to the window and stood for a while looking out. The houses
+opposite and all down the road were exactly alike, all featureless and
+grey, roofed with slate, three-storied, with basement kitchens. Nearly
+every one of them had "Apartments" in gilt letters on the fanlight
+over the front door. It was raining. The pavements were wet and there
+was mud on the roadway. The woman who lived in the corner house was
+spring-cleaning. Olive saw her helping the servant to take down the
+curtains in the front room. Dust and tea-leaves and last year's
+cobwebs. It occurred to her that spring would bring a recurrence of
+these things only if she became a useful help, as she must if she
+stayed in England and earned her living as best she could--only these
+and nothing more. The idea was horrible and she shuddered at it. "I
+shall go," she said aloud. "I shall go."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+Olive, advised by a clerk in Cook's office, had taken a through ticket
+to Siena, third class to Dover, first on the boat, second in France
+and Italy. She got to Victoria in good time, had her luggage labelled,
+secured a corner seat, and, having twenty minutes to spare, strolled
+round the bookstall, eyeing the illustrated weeklies and the cheap
+reprints. The blue and gold of a shilling edition of Keats lay ready
+to her hand and she picked it up and opened it.
+
+The girl, true lover of all beauty, flushed with pleasure at the dear,
+familiar word music, the sound of Arcadian pipes heard faintly for a
+moment above the harsh roar of London. For her the dead poet's voice
+rose clearly through the clamour of the living; it was like the silver
+wailing of a violin in a blaring discord of brass instruments.
+
+She laid down the book reluctantly, and turning, met the eager eyes of
+the man who stood beside her. He had just bought an armful of current
+literature, and his business at the bookstall was evidently done, yet
+he lingered for an appreciable instant. He, too, was a lover of
+beauty, and in his heart he was saying, "Oh, English rose!"
+
+He did not look English himself. He wore his black hair rather longer
+than is usual in this country, and there was a curiously vivid look, a
+suggestion of fire about him, which is conspicuously lacking in the
+average Briton, whose ambition it is to look as cool as possible. His
+face was thin and his eyes were deep set, like those of Julius
+Cćsar--in fact, the girl was strongly reminded of the emperor's bust
+in the British Museum. He looked about thirty-five, but might have
+been older.
+
+All this Olive saw in the brief instant during which they stood there
+together and aware of each other. When he turned away she bought some
+magazines, without any great regard for their interest or suitability,
+and went to take her place in the third-class compartment she had
+selected.
+
+He would travel first, of course. She watched his leisurely progress
+along the platform, and noted that he was taller than any of the other
+men there, and better-looking. His thin, clean-shaven face compelled
+attention; she saw some women looking at him, and was pleased to
+observe that he did not even glance at them. Then people came hurrying
+up to the door of her compartment to say good-bye to some of her
+fellow-travellers, and she lost sight of him.
+
+The train started and passed through the arid wilderness of backyards
+that lies between each one of the London termini and the clean green
+country.
+
+Olive fluttered the pages of her magazine, but she felt disinclined
+to read. She was pretty; her brown hair framed a rose-tinted face, her
+smile was charming, her blue eyes were gay and honest and kind. Men
+often looked at her, and it cannot be denied that the swift
+appraisement of masculine eyes, the momentary homage of a glance that
+said "you are fair," meant something to her. Such tributes to her
+beauty were minor joys, to be classed with the pleasure to be derived
+from _marrons glacés_ or the scent of violets, but the remembrance of
+them did not often make her dream by day or bring a flush to her
+cheeks.
+
+She roused herself presently and began to look out of the window with
+the remorseful feeling of one who has been neglecting an old friend
+for an acquaintance. After all, this was England, where she was born
+and where her mother had died, and she was leaving it perhaps for
+ever. She tried to fix the varying aspects of the spring in her mind
+for future reference; the tender green of the young larches in the
+plantation, the pale gold of the primroses, and the flowering gorse
+close to the line, the square grey towers of the village churches,
+even the cold, pinched faces of the people waiting on the platforms of
+the little stations. Italy would be otherwise, and she might never see
+these familiar things again.
+
+When the train rushed out on to the pier at Dover she dared not look
+back at the white cliffs, but kept her eyes resolutely seaward. The
+wind was high, and she heard that the crossing would be rough. Cćsar
+was close behind her, and she caught a glimpse of him going aft as she
+made her way to the ladies' cabin.
+
+She lay down on one of the red velvet divans in the stuffy saloon, and
+closed her eyes as she had been advised to do, and in ten minutes her
+misery was complete.
+
+"If you are going to be ill nothing will stop you," observed the
+sympathetic stewardess. "It is like Monte Carlo. Most people have a
+system, and sometimes they win, but they are bound to lose in the end.
+Champagne, munching biscuits, patent medicines, lying down as you are
+now. It is all vanity and vexation of spirit, my dear."
+
+Olive joined feebly in her laugh. "I feel better now. Are we nearly
+there?"
+
+"Just coming into harbour."
+
+"Thank heaven!"
+
+When Olive crawled up on deck her one idea, after her luggage, was to
+avoid anyone who had seemed to admire her. She could not bear that the
+man should see her green face, and she was grateful to him for keeping
+his distance in the crush to get off the boat, and for disappearing
+altogether in the station. A porter in a blue linen blouse piloted her
+to the waiting train, and she climbed into the compartment labelled
+"Turin," and settled herself in a window seat.
+
+The country between Calais and Paris can only be described as flat,
+stale and unprofitable by a beauty lover panting for the light and
+glow and colour of the South, and Olive soon got a book out of her bag
+and began to read. Her only fellow-passenger, a middle-aged English
+lady with an indefinite face, spoke to her presently. "You are reading
+a French novel?"
+
+"No, it is in Italian. _La Cittŕ Morta_, by Gabriele D'Annunzio. I
+want to rub up my few words of the language."
+
+"Is he not a very terrible writer?"
+
+Olive was so tired of the disapproving note. "He writes very well, and
+his descriptions are gorgeous. Of course he is horrid sometimes, but
+one can skip those parts."
+
+"Do you?"
+
+Olive smiled. "No, I do not," she said frankly, "but I don't enjoy
+them. They make me tired of life."
+
+"Is not that rather a pity?"
+
+"Perhaps; but you have to sift dirt to find diamonds, don't you? And
+this man says things that are worth tiaras sometimes."
+
+"Surely there must be Italian authors who write books suitable for
+young people in a pretty style?"
+
+"A pretty style? No doubt. But I don't read them."
+
+The older woman sighed, and then smiled quite pleasantly. "I suppose
+you are clever. One of my nieces is, and they find her rather a
+handful. Will you try one of my sandwiches?"
+
+Olive produced her biscuits and bananas, and they munched together in
+amity. After all, an aunt might be worse than stupid, and this one was
+quite good-natured, and so kind that her taste in literature might be
+excused. There were affectionate farewells at the Paris station, where
+she got out with all her accumulation of bags and bundles.
+
+The train rushed on through the woods of Fontainebleau and across wide
+plains intersected by poplar-fringed canals. As the evening mists rose
+lights began to twinkle in cottage windows, and in the villages the
+church bells were ringing the prayer to the Virgin. Olive had laid
+aside her book some time since, and now, wearying of the grey twilit
+world, she fell asleep.
+
+Jean Avenel, too, had watched the waning of the day from his place in
+a smoking first for a while, before he got up and began to prowl
+restlessly about the corridors. "She will be so tired if she does not
+eat," he said to himself. "They ought not to let a child like that
+travel alone. I wonder--" He walked down the corridor again, but this
+time he looked into each compartment. He saw three Englishmen and an
+American playing whist, Germans eating, and French people sleeping,
+and at last he came upon his rose. A small man, mean-featured and
+scrubby-haired, was seated opposite to her, and his shining eyes were
+fixed upon her face. She had taken off her hat and was holding it on
+her lap, and Jean saw that she was clutching at it nervously, and
+that she was pale. He understood that it was probably her first
+experience of the Italian stare, deliberate, merciless, and
+indefinitely prolonged. She flushed as he came forward, and her eyes
+were eloquent as they met his. He sat down beside her.
+
+"Please forgive me," he said quietly, "but I can see this man is
+annoying you. Shall I glare him out of the place? I can."
+
+"Oh, please do," she answered. "He has frightened me so. He was
+talking before you came."
+
+The culprit already looked disconcerted and rather foolish, and now,
+as Jean leant forward and seemed about to speak to him, he began to be
+frightened. He fidgeted, thrusting his hands in his pockets, looking
+out of the window, humming a tune. His ears grew red. He tried to meet
+the other man's level gaze and failed. He got up rather hurriedly. The
+brown eyes watched him slinking out before they allowed themselves a
+second sight of the rose.
+
+"Thank you so much," said Olive. "I feel as if you had killed a spider
+for me, or an earwig. He was more like an earwig. He must have come in
+here while I was asleep."
+
+"A deported waiter going back to his native Naples, I imagine," Jean
+said. "They ought not to have let you travel alone."
+
+She smiled. "I am a law unto myself."
+
+"That is a pity. Will you think me very impertinent if I confess that
+I have been watching over you--at a respectful distance--ever since we
+left Victoria? I do not approve of children wandering--"
+
+She tilted her pretty chin at him. "Children! So you have made
+yourself into a sort of G.F.S. for me?"
+
+"You know," he said gravely, "we have a mutual friend." He drew a blue
+and gold volume from an inner pocket.
+
+Olive flushed scarlet, but she only said, "Oh, Keats!"
+
+She looked at his hands as they turned the pages; they were clever and
+kind, she thought, and she wondered if he was an artist or a doctor.
+Those fingers might set a butterfly's wing, and yet they seemed very
+strong. She did not know she had sighed until he said, "Am I boring
+you?"
+
+"Oh, no," she answered eagerly. "Please don't go yet unless you want
+to. But tell me why you bought that book?"
+
+"If you could have seen yourself as I saw you, you would understand,"
+he answered. "I once saw a woman on my brother's estate pick up a
+piece of gold on the road. She had never had so much money without
+earning it in her life before, I suppose. At any rate she kissed it,
+and her face was radiant. She was old and ugly and worn by her long
+days of toil in the fields, and you-- Well, in spite of the
+differences you reminded me of her, and I am curious to know which
+poem of Keats brought that swift, rapt light of joy."
+
+"It was 'White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine'--"
+
+Jean found the place and marked the passage before returning the book
+to his pocket. "Now," he said, "you will come with me and have some
+dinner."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+Many women are shepherded through all life's journeyings by their
+men--fathers, brothers, husbands--who look out their trains for them,
+put them in the care of guards, and shield them from all contact with
+sulky porters and extortionate cabmen. Olive, who had always to take
+her own ticket and fight her own and her mother's battles, now tasted
+the joys of irresponsibility with Avenel. He compounded with Customs
+officials, who bowed low before him, he took part in the midnight
+scramble for pillows at Modane, emerging from the crowd in triumph
+with no less than three of the coveted aids to repose under his arm,
+and he saw Olive comfortably settled in another compartment with two
+motherly German women, and there left her.
+
+At Turin he secured places in the _diretto_ to Florence, and sent his
+man to the buffet for coffee and rolls, and the two broke their fast
+together.
+
+"Italy and the joy of life," Olive said lightly, as she lifted her
+cup, and he looked at her with melancholy brown eyes that yet held the
+ghost of a smile.
+
+"The passing hour," he answered; adding prosaically, "This is good
+coffee."
+
+Referring to the grey silvery trees whose name she bore he assured
+her that he did not think she resembled them. "They are old and you
+seem eternally young. You should have been called Primavera."
+
+She laughed. "Ah, if you had been my godfather--"
+
+"I should not have cared to have held you in my arms when you were a
+bald-headed baby," he answered with perfect gravity.
+
+Apparently he always said what he thought, but his frankness was
+disconcerting, and Olive changed the subject.
+
+"Is Siena beautiful?"
+
+"It is a gem of the Renaissance, and you will love it as I do, I know,
+but I wish you could have seen Florence first. My brother has a villa
+at Settignano and I am going there now. The fruit trees in the orchard
+will be all white with blossom. You remember Romeo's April oath: 'By
+yonder moon that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops--'"
+
+They lunched in the station restaurant at Genoa, and there he bought
+the girl a basket of fruit. "A poor substitute for the tea you will be
+wanting presently," he explained. "You have no tea-basket with you?
+You will want one if you are going to live with Italians."
+
+"I never thought of it."
+
+"May I send you one?" he asked eagerly. "Do let me."
+
+Olive flushed with pleasure. No one had been so kind to her since her
+mother died. Evidently he liked her--oh! he liked her very much. She
+suddenly realised how much she would miss him when they parted at
+Florence and she had to go on alone. It had been so good to be with
+someone stronger than herself who would take care of her. He had
+seemed happy too, and she thought he looked younger now than he did
+when she first saw him standing by the bookstall at Victoria station.
+
+"It is very good of you," she said. "I should like it. Thank you. I--I
+shall be sorry to say good-bye."
+
+He met her wistful eyes gravely. "I should like you to know that I
+shall never forget this day," he said. "I shall never cease to be
+grateful to you for being so--for being what you are. My wife is
+different."
+
+"Your wife--"
+
+"I don't live with her."
+
+He took a card from his case presently and scribbled an address on it.
+"I dare not hope that I shall ever hear from you again, but that is my
+name, and letters will always be forwarded to me from my brother's
+place. If ever I could do anything--"
+
+She faltered some word of thanks in an uncertain voice. She felt as if
+something had come upon her for which she was unprepared, some shadow
+of the world's pain, some flame of its fires that flickered at her
+heart for a moment and was gone. She was suddenly afraid, not of the
+brown eyes that were fixed so hungrily upon her face, but of herself.
+She could hear the beating of her own heart. The pity of it--the pity
+of it! He was so nice. Why could not they be friends--
+
+The night had fallen long since and they were nearing Florence.
+
+"Don't forget to change at Empoli," he said. "I will send my man on as
+far as that to look after you. Will you let me kiss you?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+He came over and sat on the seat by her side. "Don't be afraid. I
+won't hurt you," he said gently, and then, seeing her pale, he drew
+back. "No, I won't. It would not be fair. Oh, I beg your pardon! It
+will be enough for me to remember how good you were."
+
+The train passed into the lighted station, and he stood up and took
+his hat and coat from the rack before he turned to her once more.
+
+"Good-bye."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+"Has anyone seen our cousin?" asked Gemma as she helped herself to
+_spaghetti_.
+
+Her aunt shrugged her fat shoulders. "No! The _donna di servizio_ is
+mistress here, and she has ordained that the cousin shall not be
+disturbed. She has even locked the door, and she carries the key in
+her pocket."
+
+"It is true," old Carolina said placidly. She was accustomed to join
+in the conversation at table when she chose, and Italian servants are
+allowed great freedom of speech. "You were all in your beds when
+Giovanni Scampo drove her here in his cab this morning or you would
+have seen her then. The poor child is half dead with fatigue. Let her
+sleep, I say. There are veal cutlets to come, Signorina Maria; will
+you have more _spaghetti_?"
+
+"A little more."
+
+The old woman shook her head. "You eat too much."
+
+The Menotti lived in a small stuffy flat on the third floor of 25,
+Piazza Tolomei. It had the one advantage of being central, but was
+otherwise extremely inconvenient. The kitchen was hot and airless, and
+the servant had to sleep in a dark cupboard adjoining, in an
+atmosphere compounded of the scent of cheese, black beetles and old
+boots. There were four bedrooms besides, all opening on to the
+dining-room; and a tiny drawing-room, seldom used and never dusted,
+was filled to overflowing with gilt furniture and decorative fantasies
+in wool work.
+
+The Menotti did not entertain. They met their friends at church, or at
+the theatre, or in the Lizza gardens, where they walked every evening
+in the summer. No man had ever seen them other than well dressed, but
+in the house they wore loose white cotton jackets and old skirts. They
+were _en déshabillé_ now, though their heads were elaborately dressed
+and their faces powdered, and Maria's waist was considerably larger
+than it appeared to be when she was socially "visible."
+
+"I must breathe sometimes," she said.
+
+The three girls were inclined to stoutness, but Gemma drank vinegar
+and ate sparingly, and so had succeeded in keeping herself slim
+hitherto, though she was only three years younger than Maria, who was
+twenty-nine and looked forty.
+
+Carmela was podgy, but she might lace or not just as she pleased. No
+one would look at her in any case since her kind, good-humoured, silly
+face was marked with smallpox.
+
+Gemma was the pride of her aunt and the hope of the family. The girls
+were poor, and it is hard for such to find husbands, but she had
+recently become engaged to a young lawyer from Lucca, who had been
+staying with friends in Siena when he saw and fell in love with the
+girl whom the students at the University named the "Odalisque."
+
+Hers was the strange, boding loveliness of a pale orchid. She had no
+colour, but her curved lips were faintly pink, as were the palms of
+her soft, idle hands. "I shall be glad when she is married," her aunt
+said often. "It is very well for Maria or Carmela to go through the
+streets alone, but Gemma is otherwise, and I cannot be always running
+after her. Then her temper ... _Dio mio!_"
+
+"Perhaps it is the vinegar," suggested Carolina rather spitefully.
+
+"No. She wants a husband."
+
+When the dinner was over Signora Carosi went to her room to lie down,
+and her two elder nieces followed her example, but Carmela passed into
+the kitchen with Carolina.
+
+"You will let me see the cousin," she said, wheedling. "Gemma thinks
+she will be ugly, with great teeth and a red face like the
+Englishwomen in the Asino, but I do not believe it."
+
+"If the signorina is hoping for a miracle of plainness she will be
+unpleasantly surprised," said the old woman, and her shrivelled face
+was as mischievous as a monkey's as she drew the key of Olive's room
+from her pocket. "I am going to take her some soup now, and you shall
+come with me."
+
+It is quite impossible to be retiring, or even modest, in the
+mid-Victorian sense, in flats. A bedroom cannot remain an inviolate
+sanctuary when it affords the only means of access to the bathroom or
+is a short cut to the kitchen. Olive had had some experience of
+suburban flats during holidays spent with school friends, and had
+suffered the familiarity that breeds weariness in such close quarters.
+As she woke now she was unpleasantly aware of strangers in the room.
+
+"Only a lover or a nurse may look at a woman while she sleeps without
+offence," she said drowsily. "It is an unpardonable liberty in all
+other classes of the population. Are you swains, or sisters of mercy?"
+She opened her eyes and met Carmela's puzzled stare with laughter. "I
+was saying that when one is ill or in love one can endure many
+things," she explained in halting Italian.
+
+"Ah," Carmela said uncomprehendingly, "I am never ill, _grazia a Dio_,
+but when Maria has an indigestion she is cross, and when Gemma is in
+love her temper is dreadful. Perhaps, being a foreigner, you are
+different. Are you tired?"
+
+"Yes, I am, rather, but go on talking to me. I am not sleepy."
+
+Carmela, nothing loth, drew a chair to the bedside. "You need not get
+up yet," she said comfortably. "We always lie down after dinner until
+five, and later we go for a walk. You will see the Via Cavour full of
+people in the evening, officers and students, and mothers with
+daughters to be married, all walking up and down and looking at each
+other. Orazio Lucis first saw Gemma like that, and he followed us
+home, and then found out who we were and asked questions about us.
+Every day we saw him in the Piazza, smoking cigarettes, and waiting
+for us to go out that he might follow us, and Gemma would give him one
+look, and then cast down her eyes ... so!" Carmela caricatured her
+sister's affectation of unconsciousness very successfully, and looked
+to Olive and Carolina for applause.
+
+The servant grinned appreciation. "Yes, the signorina is very
+_civetta_. I, also, have seen her simpering when the _avvocato_ has
+been here, but she soon gets tired of him, and then her face is as God
+made it."
+
+Olive dressed herself leisurely when they had left her, and unpacked
+her clothes and her little store of books. Her cousins, coming to
+fetch her soon after six o'clock, found her ready to go out, but so
+absorbed in a guide-book of Siena that she did not hear Maria's knock
+at the door.
+
+She had resolved that she would apply art and archćology as plasters
+to the wound life had given her already. She would stay her heart's
+hunger with moods and tenses, but not of the verb "_amare_." Learning
+and teaching, she might make her mind lord of her emotions.
+
+She came forward rather shyly to meet her cousins. The three together
+were somewhat overpowering, flounced and frilled alike, and highly
+scented. Maria and Carmela fat, pleasant and profuse; Gemma silent,
+with dark resentful eyes and scornful lips that never smiled at other
+women.
+
+"You will show me the best things?" Olive said eagerly when they had
+all kissed her. "I want to see the Duomo first, and then the Palazzo
+Vecchio--but that is only open in the mornings, is it? And this is the
+Piazza Tolomei, so the house where Pia lived must be quite near."
+
+Gemma stared, but made no attempt to answer, and Maria looked
+confused.
+
+"I am afraid you will find us all very stupid, _cara_," said Carmela,
+apologetically. "We only go to the Duomo to pray, and as to museums
+and picture-galleries-- And perhaps I had better tell you now, at
+once, that we do not want to learn English. We have got you several
+lessons through friends, but Maria and Carmela say they will not
+fatigue themselves over a foreign language, and I--"
+
+"Oh," began Olive, "I thought--"
+
+Gemma interrupted her. "A thousand thanks," she said rudely. "We are
+not school children; we read about Pia dei Tolomei years ago at the
+_Scuola Normale_, but we do not consider her an amusing subject of
+conversation now."
+
+The rose in Olive's cheeks deepened. "I shall soon learn to know your
+likes and dislikes," she said, "and to understand your manners."
+
+"I hope so," answered Gemma as she left the room. Maria hurried after
+her, but the younger sister caught at Olive's hand.
+
+"You must not listen to Gemma. Come, we will walk together. Let her go
+on; she cannot forgive your nose for being straight."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+A large parcel addressed to Miss Agar was brought to the house a few
+weeks later. Olive was out giving a lesson when it came, and Gemma
+turned it over, examining the post-mark and the writing.
+
+"Shall I open it and see what is inside? She would never know."
+
+Carmela was horrified. "How can you think of such a thing!"
+
+"Besides, it is sealed," added Maria.
+
+These two liked their cousin well enough, and when they wished to
+tease the Odalisque they called her "_carina_" and praised her fresh
+prettiness. It was always so easy to make Gemma angry, and lately she
+had been more capricious and difficult than ever. Her sisters were
+continually trying to excuse her.
+
+"She is so nervous," Maria said loyally, but her paraphrase availed
+nothing. Olive understood her cousin and disliked her extremely,
+though she accorded her a reluctant admiration.
+
+She came in now with her books--an English grammar and a volume of
+translations--under her arm, and seeing that Gemma was watching her,
+she took her parcel with a carefully expressionless phrase of thanks
+to Carmela, who was anxious to cut the string, and carried it into her
+room unopened. It was the tea-basket Jean Avenel had promised her. She
+read the enclosed note, however, before she looked at it.
+
+    "I am going to America and then to Russia. Do not quite
+    forget me. If ever you need anything write to my
+    brother, Hilaire Avenel, Villa Fiorelli, Settignano,
+    near Florence, and he will serve you for my sake as he
+    would for your own if he knew you. I think I have played
+    better since I have known you, my rose. One must suffer
+    much before one can express the divine sorrow of Chopin.
+    I said I would not write, but some promises are made to
+    be broken. Can you forgive me?
+
+                    "JEAN AVENEL."
+
+America and Russia ... the divine sorrow of Chopin ... I have played
+better.... He was a pianist then, and surely a great one. Olive
+remembered the slender brown hands that had seemed to her so supple
+and so strong. But the name of Avenel was strange to her, and she was
+sure she had never seen it on posters, or in the papers and magazines
+that chronicle the doings of musical celebrities.
+
+She took the tea-things out of the basket one by one and looked at
+them with pleasure. The sugar box and the caddy and the spoon were
+all of silver, and engraved with her initials, and the cup and saucer
+were painted with garlands of pale roses.
+
+Tears filled her eyes as she sat down at the little table in the
+window and began to write.
+
+    "You have sent me a tea equipage fit for an empress! It
+    is perfect, and I do not know how to thank you. Yes. I
+    forgive you for writing. Have I really helped you to
+    play? I am so glad. You say Chopin, so I suppose it is
+    the piano? I must tell you that I remember all the
+    stories you told me of Siena, and they add to the
+    interest of my days. I give English lessons, and am
+    making enough money to keep myself, but in the intervals
+    of grammar and '_I Promessi Sposi_' (no less than three
+    of my pupils are translating that interminable romance
+    into so-called English) I study the architecture of the
+    early Renaissance in the old narrow streets, and gaze
+    upon Byzantine Madonnas in the churches. The Duomo is an
+    archangel's dream, and I like to go there with my
+    cousins and steep my soul in its beauty while they say
+    their prayers and fan themselves. One of them is pretty
+    and she hates me; the other two are stout and kind and
+    empty-headed, and their aunt is nothing--a large, heavy
+    nothing--"
+
+Olive laid down her pen. "What will he think if I write him eight
+pages? That I want to begin a correspondence? I do, but he must not
+know it."
+
+She tore her letter up into small pieces and wrote two lines on a
+sheet of note-paper.
+
+    "Thank you very much for your kind present and for what
+    you say. Of course I forgive you ... and I shall not
+    forget.--Yours sincerely,            OLIVE AGAR."
+
+She went to the window and threw the torn scraps of the first letter
+out into the street, and then she sat down again and began to cry; not
+for long. Women who know how precious youth is understand that tears
+are an expensive luxury, and they are sparing of them accordingly.
+They suffer more in the stern repression of their emotions than do
+those who yield easily to grief, but they keep their eyelashes and
+their complexions.
+
+Olive bathed her eyes presently and smoked a cigarette to calm her
+nerves. She was going out that evening to dine with her favourite
+pupil and his mother, and she knew they would be distressed if she
+looked ill or sad.
+
+Aurelia de Sanctis had had troubles enough of her own. She had married
+a patriot, a man with a beautiful eager face and a body spent with
+disease, and a fever that never left him since the days when he lurked
+in the marshes of the Maremma, crouched in a tangle of wet reeds and
+rushes, and watching for the flash of steel in the sunshine.
+
+Austrian bayonets ... he raved of them in his dreams, and called upon
+the names of comrades who had rotted in prisons or died in exile. His
+young wife nursed him devotedly until he died, leaving her a widow at
+twenty-seven. She had a small pension from the Government, and she
+worked at dressmaking to eke it out.
+
+Her only child had grown up to be a hopeless invalid. He could not go
+to school, so he lay all day on the sofa by the window in the tiny
+sitting-room and helped his mother with her sewing. His poor little
+bony hands were very quick and dexterous.
+
+In the evenings he read everything he could get hold of, books and
+newspapers. The professors from the University, who came to see him
+and were kind to him for his father's sake, told each other that he
+was a genius and that his soul was eating up his frail body. They
+wondered, pitifully, what poor Signora Aurelia would do when--
+
+The mother was hopeful, however. "He takes such an interest in
+everything that I think he must have a strong vitality though he seems
+delicate," she said.
+
+He had expressed a wish to learn English, and when Signora Aurelia
+first heard of Olive she wrote asking her to come and see her. The De
+Sancti lived a little way outside the Porta Romana, on the edge of the
+hill and outside the town, and Maria advised her cousin not to go
+there.
+
+"It is so far out on a hot dusty road, and you will grow as thin and
+dry as an old hen's drumstick if you walk so much. And I know the
+signora is poor and will not be able to pay well."
+
+Olive went, nevertheless. Signora Aurelia herself opened the door to
+her and showed evident pleasure at seeing her. The poor woman had been
+beautiful, and now that she was worn by time and sorrow she still
+looked like a goddess, exiled to earth, and altogether shabby--a deity
+in reduced circumstances--but none the less divinely fair and kind.
+Her great love for her child had so moulded her that she seemed the
+very incarnation of motherhood. So might Ceres have appeared as she
+wandered forlornly in search of her lost Persephone, gentle, weary,
+her fineness a little blunted by her woes.
+
+"Are you the English signorina? Come in! My son will be so pleased,"
+she said as she led the girl into the room where Astorre was working
+at embroidery.
+
+Olive saw a boy of seventeen sewing as he lay on the sofa. There were
+some books on the floor within his reach, and a glass of lemonade was
+set upon the window-sill, but he seemed quite absorbed in making fine
+stitches. He looked up, however, as they came in and smiled at his
+mother.
+
+"I have nearly finished," he said. "Presently I shall read the
+sonnet, '_Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra_,' to refresh
+myself."
+
+"This is the signorina who teaches English, _nino mio_."
+
+His face lit up at once and he held out his hand. "I have already
+studied the grammar, but the pronunciation ... ah! that will be hard
+to learn. Will you help me, signorina?"
+
+"Yes, indeed I will. We will read and talk together, and soon you will
+speak English better than I can Italian."
+
+As she spoke and smiled her heart ached to see the hollowness of his
+cheeks and the lines of pain about his young mouth. She guessed that
+his poor body was all twisted and deformed under the rug that covered
+it. Signora Aurelia took her out on to their little terrace garden
+before she left. Twenty miles and more of fair Tuscan earth lay at
+their feet, grey olive groves and green vineyards, and the hills
+beyond all shimmering in the first heat of spring. Olive exclaimed at
+the beauty of the world.
+
+"Yes. On summer evenings Astorre can lie here and watch what he calls
+the pageant of the skies. The poor child is so fond of colour. I know
+you will be very patient with him, signorina. He is so clever, but
+some days he is in pain, and then he gets tired and so cannot learn so
+well. You have kindly promised to come twice a week, but I must tell
+you that I am not rich--" She looked at Olive wistfully.
+
+The girl dared not offer to teach Astorre for nothing. "I can see your
+son will be a very good pupil," she said hastily. "Would one lire the
+lesson suit you?"
+
+"Oh, yes," the signora said with evident relief. "But are you sure
+that is enough? You must not sacrifice yourself, my dear--"
+
+"It will be a pleasure to come," Olive said very sincerely.
+
+The acquaintance soon ripened into a triangular friendship. The
+signora grew to love the girl because she amused Astorre and was never
+obviously sorry for him, or too gentle with him, as were some of the
+well-meaning people who came to see the boy. "An overflow of pity is
+like grease exuding," he said once. "I hate it."
+
+He was very old for his years. He had read everything apparently, and
+he discussed problems of life and death with the air of a man of
+forty. He had no illusions about himself. "I shall die," he said once
+to Olive when his mother was not in the room. "My father gave me a
+spirit that burns like Greek fire and a body like--like a spent
+shell."
+
+The easy, desultory lessons were often prolonged, and then the girl
+stayed to dinner and played dominoes afterwards with him or with his
+mother until ten o'clock, when old Carolina came to fetch her home.
+The withered little serving-woman was voluble, and always cheerfully
+ready to lighten the way with descriptions of the last moments of her
+children. She had had thirteen, and two were still surviving. "One
+grows accustomed, _signorina mia_--"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+"You have been crying," Astorre said abruptly.
+
+Olive leant against the balustrade of the little terrace. She was
+watching the fireflies that sparkled in the dusk of the vineyards in
+the valley below. A breeze had risen from the sea at sunset, and it
+stirred the leaves of the climbing roses and brought a faint sound of
+convent bells far away. Some stars shone in the clear pale sky.
+
+Dinner had been cleared away, and Signora Aurelia had gone in to
+finish a white dress she was making for a bride. Olive had offered to
+help her. "I would rather you amused yourself with Astorre. I can see
+you are tired," she had answered as she left them together.
+
+"You have been crying," the boy repeated insistently.
+
+She smiled at him then. "May I not shed tears if I choose?"
+
+"I must know why," he answered.
+
+"Oh, a castle in Spain."
+
+He looked at her searchingly. "And a castellan?"
+
+"Yes. I want a man, and I cannot have him. _Ecco!_"
+
+She did not expect him to take her seriously, but he was often
+perversely inclined. "Of course," he said in a matter-of-fact tone,
+"all women want a man or men. Do you think I have been lying here all
+these years without finding that out? That need is the mainspring of
+life, the key to heaven, and the root of all evil. If--if I were
+different someone would want me--" His voice broke.
+
+Olive looked away from him. "How still the night is," she said. "The
+nightingales are singing in the woods below, Astorre. Do you hear
+them?"
+
+"I am not deaf," he answered in a muffled voice, "I hear them. Will
+you hear me?"
+
+Watching her closely he saw that she shrank from him. "Do not be
+afraid," he said gruffly. "I am not going to be a fool. No man on
+earth is worth your tears. That is all I wanted to say."
+
+"Ah, child, you are young for all your wisdom. I was not sorry for him
+but for myself."
+
+"Liar!" he cried petulantly, and then caught at her hand. "Forgive me!
+Come now and read me a sonnet of your Keats and then translate it to
+me."
+
+Obediently she stooped to pick up the book. The flame of the little
+lamp on the table at his side burned steadily.
+
+He lay with closed eyes and lips that moved, repeating the words after
+her. "It is very good to listen to your voice while you are here with
+me alone under the stars," he said presently. "Tell me, does this man
+love you?"
+
+She was silent.
+
+"Does he love you?"
+
+"I think he did, but perhaps he has forgotten me now."
+
+"I love you," the boy said deliberately.
+
+"I cannot come again if you talk like this, Astorre."
+
+"I shall never say it again," he answered, "but I want you to remember
+that it is so, because it may comfort you. Such words never come amiss
+to women. They feed on the hunger of our hearts."
+
+"Don't say that!" she cried. "It is true that I like you to be fond of
+me, and I love you. In the best way, Astorre--oh, do believe that it
+is the best way!"
+
+"With your soul, I suppose? Do you think I am an angel because I am a
+cripple?" he asked bitterly.
+
+"I am sorry--"
+
+"Poor little girl," he said more gently, "I have hurt you instead of
+comforting you, as I meant to do. But how can I give what is not mine?
+How can I cry 'Peace,' when there is no peace? You will suffer still
+when I am at rest."
+
+The boy's mother put down her work presently and came out to them, and
+the three sat silently watching the moon rise beyond the hills. It was
+as though a veil had been withdrawn to show the glimmer of distant
+streams, the white walls of peasant dwellings set among their vines,
+the belfry tower of an old Carthusian monastery belted in by tall dark
+cypresses, and the twisted shadows thrown by the gnarled trunks and
+outstanding roots of the olive trees.
+
+"All blue and silver," cried the girl after a while. "Thank God for
+Italy!"
+
+"She has cost her children dear," the elder woman answered, sighing.
+"Beyond that rampart of hills lies the Maremma, and swamps, marshes,
+forests are to be drained now, they say, and made profitable. You will
+see some peasants from over there in our streets at the time of the
+Palio. Poor souls! They are so lean and haggard and yellow that their
+bones seem to be piercing through their discoloured skins."
+
+"The Palio! I think Signor Lucis is coming to Siena to see it," Olive
+said.
+
+"Is that the man your cousin Gemma is to marry?" the dressmaker asked
+curiously. "I had heard that she was engaged, but one hears so many
+things. Do you like her?"
+
+"Not very much, but really I see very little of her. I am out all day
+teaching."
+
+The door-bell clanged as the girl rose to go. "That is Carolina come
+for her stray sheep," she said, smiling. "They will not believe that I
+can come home by myself at night."
+
+"They are quite right. If your aunt's servant did not come for you I
+should take you back to the Piazza Tolomei myself."
+
+"You forget that I am English."
+
+Olive never attempted to explain her code; she stated her nationality
+and went on her way. Her first pupils had all been young girls, but as
+it became known that she was really English her circle widened. The
+prior of a Dominican convent near San Giorgio, and two privates from a
+regiment of Lancers stationed in the Fortezza, came to her to be
+taught, and some of Astorre's friends, students at the University,
+were very anxious for lessons, and as the Menotti refused to have them
+in their house Olive had to hire a room to receive them.
+
+The aunt disapproved. "It is not right," she said, and when Olive
+assured her that she could not afford to lose good pupils she shook
+her large head.
+
+"You will go your own way, I suppose, but do not bring your men here.
+I cannot have soldiers scratching up the carpet with their spurs, or
+monks dropping snuff on it."
+
+Olive's days were filled, and she, having no time for the
+self-tormentings of idle women, was content to be not quite unhappy.
+She needed love and could not rest without it, and she was at least
+partially satisfied. Astorre and his mother adored her, thought her
+perfect, held her dear. All her pupils seemed to like her, and some of
+the students brought her little gifts of flowers, and packets of
+chocolate and almond-rock that Maria ate for her. The prior gave her a
+plaster statuette of St Catherine. "She was clever, and so are you,"
+he said.
+
+"Carmela, I am not really _antipatica_?"
+
+"What foolishness! No."
+
+"Why does Gemma hate me then? No one else does, or if they do they
+hide it, but she looks daggers at me always."
+
+Carmela had been invited to tea in her cousin's bedroom. The water did
+not boil yet, but her mouth was already full of cake.
+
+"What happened the other night when Gemma let you in?" she mumbled.
+
+"Did she say anything to you?"
+
+"No, but I am not blind or deaf. You have not spoken to each other
+since."
+
+Olive lifted the kettle off the spirit lamp. "You like it weak, I
+know."
+
+"Yes, and three lumps of sugar. Tell me what happened, _cara_."
+
+"Well, as I came up the stairs that night I noticed a strong scent of
+tobacco--good tobacco. Sienese boys smoke cheap cigarettes, and the
+older men get black Tuscan cigars, but this was different. It reminded
+me of-- Oh, well, never mind. When I came to the first landing I felt
+sure there was someone standing close against the wall waiting for me
+to go by, and yet when I spoke no one answered. You know how dark it
+is on the stairs at night. I could not see anything, but I listened,
+and, Carmela, a watch was ticking quite near me, by my ear. I could
+not move for a moment, and then I heard Carolina calling--she was
+with me, you know, but she had gone up first--and I got up somehow.
+Gemma let us in. She said she had been asleep, and I noticed that her
+hair was all loose and tumbled. I told her I fancied there was someone
+lurking on the stairs, and she said it must have been the cat, but I
+knew from the way she said it that she was angry. She lit her candle
+and marched off into her own room without saying good-night, and I was
+sorry because I have always wanted to be friends with her. I thought I
+would try to say something about it, so I went to her door and
+knocked. She opened it directly. 'Go away, spy,' she said very
+distinctly, and then I grew angry too. I laughed. 'So there was a man
+on the stairs,' I said."
+
+Carmela stirred her tea thoughtfully. "Ah!" she said. "How nice these
+spoons are. I wish you would tell me who gave them to you."
+
+She helped herself to another cake. "Gemma is difficult, and we shall
+all be glad when September comes and she is safely married. She is
+lazy. You have seen us of a morning, cutting out, basting, stitching
+at her wedding clothes, while she sits with her hands folded. Are you
+coming out with us this evening?"
+
+The Menotti strolled down to the Lizza nearly every day after the
+_siesta_, and Carmela often persuaded her cousin to accompany them.
+The gardens were set on an outlying spur of the hill on which the
+wolf's foster son, Remus, built the city that was to be fairer than
+Rome. The winter winds, coming swiftly from the sea, whipped the
+laurels into strange shapes, shook the brown seed pods from the bare
+boughs of the acacias, and froze the water that dripped from the
+Medicean balls on the old wall of the Fortezza. Even in summer a
+little breeze would spring up towards sunset, and the leaves that had
+hung heavy and flaccid on the trees in the blazing heat of noon would
+be stirred by it to some semblance of life, while the shadows
+lengthened, and the incessant maddening scream of the locusts died
+down into silence. The gardens were a favourite resort. As the church
+bells rang the Ave Maria the people came to them by Camollia and San
+Domenico, to see each other and to talk over the news of the day.
+
+Smart be-ribboned nurses carrying babies on white silk cushions tied
+with pink or blue rosettes, young married women with their children,
+stout mothers chaperoning the elaborate vivacity of their daughters,
+occupied seats near the bandstand, or lingered about the paths as they
+chattered and fanned themselves incessantly to the strains of the
+Intermezzo from _Cavalleria Rusticana_ or some march of Verdi's. A
+great gulf was fixed between the sexes on these occasions. The young
+men congregated about the base of Garibaldi's statue; more or less
+gilded youths devoted to "le Sport," wearing black woollen jerseys
+and perforated cycling shoes, while lady-killers braved strangulation
+in four-inch collars. There were soldiers too, cavalry lieutenants,
+slender, erect, and very conscious of their charms, and dark-faced
+priests, who listened to the music carefully with their eyes fixed on
+the ground, as being in the crowd but not of it. Olive watched them
+all with mingled amusement and impatience. If only the boys would talk
+to their friends' sisters instead of eyeing them furtively from afar;
+if only the girls would refrain from useless needlework and empty
+laughter. They talked incessantly and called every mortal--and
+immortal--thing _carina_. Queen Margherita was _carina_, and so was
+the new cross-stitch, and so was this blue-eyed Olive. Yes, they
+admitted her alien charm. She was _strana_, too, but they did not use
+that word when she was there or she would have rejoiced over such an
+enlargement of their vocabulary.
+
+"They are amiable," she told Astorre, "but we have not one idea in
+common."
+
+"Ah," he said, "can one woman ever praise another without that 'but'?
+Do you think them pretty?" he asked.
+
+"Yes, but one does not notice them when Gemma is there."
+
+"That is the pale one, isn't it? I have heard of her from the
+students, and also from the professors of the University. One of my
+friends raves about her Greek profile and her straight black brows. He
+calls her his silent Sappho, but I fancy Odalisque is a better name
+for her. There is no brain or heart, is there?"
+
+"I don't know," she answered uncertainly. "She seldom speaks to
+anyone, never to me."
+
+"She is jealous of you probably."
+
+The heats of July tried the boy. He was not so well as he had been in
+the spring, and lately he had not been able to help his mother with
+her needlework. The hours of enforced idleness seemed very long, and
+he watched for Olive's coming with pathetic eagerness. She never
+failed to appear on Tuesdays and Saturdays, though the lessons had
+been given up since his head ached when he tried to learn. Signora
+Aurelia met her always at the door with protestations of gratitude.
+"You amuse him and make him laugh, my dear, because you are so fresh,
+and you do not mind what you say. It is good of you to come so far in
+the sun."
+
+The girl's heart ached to see the haggard young face so white against
+the dark velvet of the piled-up cushions. The deep grey eyes lit up
+with pleasure at the sight of her, but she found it hard to meet their
+yearning with a smile.
+
+Sometimes she found old men sitting with him, grave and potent
+signiors, professors from the University, who, on being introduced,
+beamed paternally and asked her questions about Oxford and Cambridge.
+There were bashful youths too, who blushed when she entered and rose
+hurriedly with muttered excuses. If they could be induced to stay,
+Olive, seeing that it pleased Astorre to see them shuffling their feet
+and writhing on their chairs in an agony of embarrassment before her,
+did her best to make them uncomfortable.
+
+"Your friends are all so timid," she said. He looked at her with a
+kind of triumph, a pride of possession.
+
+"They do not understand you as I do. Fausto admires you, but you
+frighten him."
+
+"Is he Gemma's adorer?" she asked with a careful display of
+indifference.
+
+"Yes, he is always _amoroso_."
+
+"Ah! Does he smoke?"
+
+"Yes. Why?"
+
+"Oh, nothing," she said. She did not really believe that the man on
+the stairs could have been Fausto. Gemma would not look twice at such
+a harmless infant now. When she was forty-five, perhaps, she might
+smile on boys, but at twenty-six--
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+Olive sat in her little bedroom correcting exercises.
+
+It was the drowsy middle of the afternoon and the heat was intense.
+All the grey-green and golden land of Tuscany lay still and helpless
+at the mercy of the sun. The birds had long ceased singing, and only
+the thin shrilling of the locusts broke the August silence. The
+parched earth was pale, and great cracks that only the autumn rains
+could fill had opened on the hillsides, but the ripening maize lay
+snug within its narrow sheaths of green, and the leaves of the vines
+hid great bunches of purpling grapes. In the fields men rested awhile
+from their labours, and the patient white oxen stood in the shade of
+the mulberries, while the sunburnt lads who drove them bathed their
+tired bodies in the stream, or lay idly in the lush grass at the
+water's edge.
+
+In the town the walls of houses that had fronted the morning sun were
+scorching to the touch, and there was no coolness even in the steep
+northward streets that were always in shadow, or in the grey
+stone-paved courts of the palaces. There were few people about at this
+hour, and the little stream of traffic had run dry in the Via Cavour.
+A vendor of melons drew his barrow close up to the battered old column
+in the Piazza Tolomei, and squatted down on the ground beside it.
+"_Cocomeri! Fresc' e buoni!_" he cried once or twice, and then rolled
+over and went to sleep. A peasant girl carrying a basket of eggs
+passed presently, and she looked wistfully at the fruit, but she did
+not disturb his slumbers.
+
+"Is that the aunt of your friend's mother? No, it is the sister of my
+niece's governess." Olive laid down her pen. She was only partially
+dressed and her hair hung loosely about her bare white shoulders. The
+heat made hairpins seem a burden and outer garments superfluous. "My
+niece's governess is the last. Thank Heaven for that!" she said, and
+she sat down on the brick floor to take off her stockings. Gemma's
+_fidanzato_, her lawyer from Lucca, was coming to Siena for a week. He
+would lodge next door and come in to the Menotti for most of his
+meals, and already poor old Carolina was busy in the hot, airless
+kitchen, beating up eggs for a _zabajone_, and Signora Carosi had gone
+out to buy ice for the wine and sweet cakes to be handed round with
+little glasses of _vin_ Santo or Marsala.
+
+Carmela came into her cousin's room soon after four o'clock. "I have
+just taken Gemma a cup of black coffee. Her head aches terribly."
+
+"I heard her moving about her room in the night," Olive answered, and
+she added, under her breath, "Poor Gemma!"
+
+Carmela lowered her voice too. "Of course Maria and I know that you
+see what is going on as well as we do. There is some man ... she lets
+down a basket from her window at nights for letters, and I believe she
+meets him when my aunt thinks she has gone to Mass. It is dreadful.
+How glad we shall be when she is safely married and away."
+
+"Who is the man?"
+
+"Hush! I don't know. Do you hear the beating of a drum? One of the
+_Contrade_ is coming."
+
+The two girls ran to the window, and Olive opened the green shutters a
+little way that they might see out without being seen. The day of the
+Palio was close at hand, and the pages and _alfieri_ of the rival
+parishes, whose horses were to run in the race, were already going
+about the town. Olive never tired of watching the flash of bright
+colours as the flags were flung up and deftly caught again, and she
+cried out now with pleasure as the little procession moved leisurely
+across the piazza.
+
+"I wonder why they come here," Carmela said, as the first _alfiero_
+let the heavy folds of silk ripple about his head, twisted the staff,
+seemed to drop it, and gathered it to him again easily with his left
+hand. The page stood aside with a grave assumption of the gilded
+graces of the thirteenth century. He was handsome in his dress of
+green and white and scarlet velvet.
+
+"Why does he look up here?"
+
+Olive laughed a little. "He is the son of the cobbler who mends my
+boots," she whispered. "He is trying to learn English and I have lent
+him some books, and that is why he has come to do us honour. I think
+it is charming of him."
+
+She took a white magnolia blossom from a glass dish on her table.
+"Shall I be medićval too?"
+
+The boy raised smiling eyes as the pale flower came fluttering down to
+him. One of the _alfieri_ laughed aloud.
+
+"_O Romeo, sei bello!_"
+
+"_Son' felice!_" he answered, and he kissed the waxen petals ardently.
+
+Olive softly clapped her hands together. "Is he not delicious! What an
+actor! Oh, Italy!"
+
+Now that the performance was over the _alfieri_ strolled across the
+piazza to the barrow that was still drawn up by the column.
+"_Cocomeri! Fresc' e buoni!_"
+
+"I never know what will please you," Carmela said as she sat down.
+"But foreigners always like the Palio. You will see many English and
+Americans and Germans on the stands."
+
+"Yes, I love it all. Yesterday I passed through the Piazza del Campo
+and saw the workmen putting palings all about the centre, and
+hammering at the stands, while others strewed sand on the course and
+fastened mattresses to the side of the house by San Martino."
+
+"Ah, the _fantini_ are often thrown there and flung against the wall.
+If there were no mattresses ... crack!" Carmela made a sound as of
+breaking bones and hummed a few bars of Chopin's _Marche Funčbre_.
+
+Olive shuddered. "You are an impressionist, Carmela. Two dabs of
+scarlet and a smear--half a word and a shrug of the shoulders--and you
+have expressed a five-act tragedy. I think you could act."
+
+"Oh, I am not clever; I should never be able to remember my part."
+
+"You would improvise," Olive was beginning, when Carmela sprang up and
+ran to the window again.
+
+"It is Orazio!" she cried. "He has come in a cab."
+
+The _vetturino_ had pulled his horse up with a jerk of the reins after
+the manner of his kind; the wretched animal had slipped and he was now
+beating it about the head with the butt end of his whip. His fare had
+got out and was looking on calmly.
+
+Olive hastily picked up one of her shoes and flung it at them. It
+struck the _vetturino_ just above the ear. "A nasty crack," she said.
+"His language is evidently frightful. It is a good thing I can't
+understand it, Carmela."
+
+She looked down at the angry, bewildered men, and the _vetturino_,
+catching a glimpse of the flushed face framed in a soft fluff of brown
+hair, shook his fist and roared a curse upon it.
+
+"Touch that horse again and I'll throw a jug of boiling water over
+you," she cried as she drew the green shutters to; and then, in quite
+another tone, "Oh, Giovanni, be good. What has the poor beast ever
+done to you?" She turned to Carmela. "I know him. His wife does
+washing for Signora Aurelia," she explained.
+
+A slow grin overspread the man's heavy face as he rubbed his head.
+
+"Mad English," he said, and then looked closely at the coin the
+Lucchese had tendered him.
+
+"Your legal fare," Orazio began pompously.
+
+"Santo Diavolo--"
+
+"I am a lawyer."
+
+"_Si capisce!_ Will you give the signorina her shoe?" He handed it to
+Orazio, who took it awkwardly.
+
+"The incident is closed," Olive said as she came back to her cooling
+tea. "I hope there is a heaven for horses and a hell for men. Oh, how
+I hate cruelty! Carmela, if that is Orazio I must say I sympathise
+with Gemma. How could any woman love a mean, narrow-shouldered,
+whitey-brown paper thing like that?"
+
+"It is a pity," sighed Carmela as she moved towards the door. "But
+after all they are all alike in the end. I must go now to help Maria
+lace. I pull a little, and then wait a few minutes. _Č un martirio!_"
+
+"Why does she do it?"
+
+"Why does an ostrich bury its head in the sand? Why does a camel try
+to get through the eye of a needle? (But perhaps he does not.) I often
+tell her fat cannot be hidden, but she will not believe."
+
+When Olive went into the _salotto_ a few minutes before seven she
+found the family assembled. Signor Lucis rose from his place at
+Gemma's side as the aunt uttered the introductory formula. He brought
+his heels together and bowed stiffly from the waist, and when Olive
+gave him her hand in English fashion he took it limply and held it for
+a moment before he dropped it. His string-coloured moustache was
+brushed up from a loose-lipped mouth, and he showed bad teeth when he
+smiled.
+
+"The signorina speaks Italian?"
+
+"Oh, yes."
+
+"Ah, does she come from London?"
+
+"I had no settled home in England."
+
+"Ah! The sun never shines there?"
+
+She laughed. "Not as it does here," she admitted. "Where is my shoe?"
+
+"It was yours then?" he said with an attempt at playfulness. "Gemma
+has been quite jealous of the unknown owner, but she says it is much
+larger than any of hers." The girls' eyes met but neither spoke, and
+Orazio babbled on, unheeding: "Her feet are _carini_, and I can span
+her ankle with my thumb and forefinger; but you are small made too,
+signorina."
+
+Carolina poked her head in at the door. "_Al suo comodo č pronto_,"
+she said, referring to the dinner, and hurried away again to dish up
+the veal cutlets.
+
+The young man contrived to remain behind in the _salotto_ for a moment
+and to keep Gemma with him. Olive looked at them as they took their
+places at table, and she understood that the girl had had to submit to
+some caress. She looked sick and her lips were quite white, and if
+Lucis had been a man of quick perceptions he would have realised, her
+face must have shown him, that she loathed him. He was dense, however,
+and though he commented on her silence later on it was evident that he
+attributed it to shyness.
+
+Olive, thinking to do well, flung herself into the conversational
+breach. Her cousins had nothing to say, and the aunt's thoughts were
+set on the dinner and cumbered with much serving. So she talked to him
+as in duty bound, and he seemed inclined to banter her.
+
+Her feet, her temper, her relations with _vetturini_. He was
+execrable, but she would not take offence.
+
+After dinner they all sat in the little _salotto_ until it was time to
+go to the theatre, and still Olive talked and laughed with Orazio,
+teaching him English words and making fun of his pronunciation of
+them. Gemma watched her sombrely and judged her by her own standards,
+and Carmela caught at her cousin's arm presently as they passed down
+the crowded Via Cavour together.
+
+"Why did you make her so angry? She will always hate you now. I did
+not know you were _civetta_."
+
+Olive looked startled. "Angry? What do you mean?"
+
+"Why did you speak so much to Orazio? Gemma thought you wanted to take
+her husband from her and she will not forgive."
+
+"Why, I could see it made her ill to look at him and that she shrank
+from his touch, and I did as I would be done by. I distracted his
+attention."
+
+Carmela laughed in spite of herself. "Oh, Olive, and I thought you
+were so clever. Do you not understand that one can be jealous of a man
+one does not love? I know that though I am stupid. All Italians are
+jealous. You must remember that."
+
+"I am sorry," Olive said ruefully after a pause. "I see you are right.
+She will never believe that I wanted to help her. If only you could
+persuade her to give up Orazio. Surely the other man would come
+forward then. You and Maria talk of getting her safely married and
+away, but I see farther. There can be no safety in union with the
+wrong man--"
+
+Carmela shook her head. "She wants a husband," she said stolidly,
+"and Orazio will make a good one. You do not understand us, my dear.
+You can please yourself with dreams and fancies, but we are
+different."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+Olive was careful to sit down with Carmela on one side of their box on
+the second tier, leaving two chairs in front for the _fidanzati_, but
+the young man made several efforts to include her in the conversation
+and she understood that she had put herself in a false position.
+Orazio had misunderstood her because her manners were not the manners
+of Lucca, and he knew no others. It annoyed her to see that he plumed
+himself on his conquest, but her sense of humour enabled her to avoid
+his glances with a good grace, especially as she realised that she had
+brought them on herself.
+
+She felt nothing but pity for her cousin now. It would be terrible to
+marry a man like that, she thought, and she wondered that so many
+women could rush in where angels feared to tread. She believed that
+there were infinite possibilities of happiness in the holy state of
+matrimony, but it seemed to her that perhaps the less said of some
+actualities the better.
+
+Carmela was right. At this time she pastured on dreams and fancies.
+Her emotions were not starved, but they were kept down and only
+allowed to nibble. She thought often of the man who had been kind to
+her, and sometimes she wished that he had kissed her. It would have
+been something to remember. Often, if she closed her eyes, she could
+almost cheat herself into believing him there close beside her, his
+brown gaze upon her, his lips quivering with a strange eagerness that
+troubled her and yet made her glad. Jean Avenel. It was a good name.
+
+He had gone to America and she assured herself that he must have
+forgotten her, but she did not try to forget him. She nursed the
+little wistful sorrow for what might have been, as women will, and
+would not bind up the scratch he had inflicted. Already she had
+learned that some pain is pleasant, and that a stinging sweetness may
+be distilled from tears. Sometimes at night, when it was too hot to
+sleep and she lay watching the fine silver lines of moonlight passing
+across the floor, she asked herself if she would see him again, and
+when, and how, and wove all manner of cobweb fancies about what might
+be.
+
+She ripened quickly as fruit ripens in the hot sunshine of Italy; her
+lips were more sweetly curved and coloured, and her blue eyes were
+shadowed now. They were like sapphires seen through a veil.
+
+Maria gave her the opera-glasses and she raised them to scan the
+house. It was a gala night and the theatre was hung with flags and
+brilliantly illuminated. There were candles everywhere, and the great
+chandelier that hung from the ceiling was lit. The heat was stifling,
+and the incessant fluttering of fans gave the women in the _parterre_
+and in the crowded boxes a look of unrest that was belied by their
+placid, expressionless faces. Many glanced up at the Menotti in their
+box. There was some criticism of Gemma's Lucchese.
+
+"He is ugly, but she could not expect to get a husband here where she
+is so well known. They say--"
+
+"The Capuan Psyche and a rose from the garden of Eden," said a man in
+the stage box, who had discerned Olive's fresh, eager prettiness
+beyond the pale beauty of the Odalisque.
+
+He handed the glasses to his neighbour. "Choose."
+
+"The _rôle_ of Paris is a thankless one; it involved death in the end
+for the shepherd prince."
+
+"Yes, but you are not a shepherd prince."
+
+The man addressed was handsome as a faun might be and as a tiger is.
+Not sleek, but lean and brown, with hot, insolent eyes and a fine and
+cruel mouth. A great emerald sparkled on the little finger of his left
+hand. He was one of the few in the house who wore evening dress, and
+he was noticeable on that account, but he had been standing talking
+with some other men at the back of his box hitherto. He came forward
+now and Gemma saw him. Her set lips relaxed and seemed to redden as
+she met his bold, lifted gaze, but as his eyes left hers and he
+raised his glasses to stare past her at Olive her face contracted so
+that for the moment she was almost ugly.
+
+The performance was timed to begin at nine, but at twenty minutes past
+the hour newsvendors were still going to and fro with bundles of
+evening papers, and the orchestra was represented by a melancholy
+bald-headed man with a cornet. The other musicians came in leisurely,
+one by one, and at last the conductor took his place and the audience
+settled down and was comparatively quiet while the Royal March was
+being played. The orchestra had begun the overture to _Rigoletto_ when
+some of the men who stood in the packed arena behind the _palchi_
+cried out and their friends in other parts of the house joined in.
+They howled like wolves, and for a few minutes the uproar was
+terrific, and Verdi's music was overwhelmed by the clamour of voices
+until the conductor, turning towards the audience, said something
+inaudible with a deprecating bow and a quick movement of his hands.
+
+"_Ora, zitti!_" yelled a voice from the gallery.
+
+Silence was instant, and the whole house rose and stood reverently,
+listening to a weird and confused jumble of broken chords that yet
+could stir the pulses and quicken the beating of young hearts.
+
+Olive had risen with the rest. "What is it?" she whispered to Maria.
+
+"Garibaldi's Hymn."
+
+It seemed a red harmony of rebellious souls, climbing, struggling,
+clutching at the skirts of Freedom. The patter of spent shot, the
+heavy breathing of hunted fugitives, the harsh crying of dying men,
+the rush of feet that stumbled as they came over the graves of the
+Past; all these sounds of bygone strife rang, as it were, faintly,
+beyond the strange music, as the sea echoes, sighing, in a shell.
+
+Signora Aurelia had told Olive how in the years before Italy was free
+and united under the king, when Guiseppe Verdi was a young man, the
+students would call his name in the theatre until the house rang to
+the cry of "_Viva Verdi! Viva Verdi!_" A little because they loved
+their music-maker, more because V. E. R. D. I. meant Vittor Emanuele,
+Re D'Italia, and they liked to sing his forbidden praises in the very
+ears of the white-coat Austrians.
+
+They had their Victor. Had he not sufficed? Olive knew that the
+authorities scarcely countenanced the playing of the Republican hymn.
+Was it because it made men long for some greater ruler than a king, or
+for no ruler at all? Freedom is more elusive even than happiness.
+Never yet has she yielded herself to men, though she makes large
+promises and exacts sacrifices as cruel as ever those of Moloch could
+have been. Her altars stream with blood, but she ... she is talking,
+or she is pursuing, or she is on a journey, or peradventure she
+sleepeth ... and her prophets must still call upon her and cut
+themselves with knives.
+
+As the curtain went up Olive leant forward that she might see the
+stage. It was her first opera. Music is a necessity in Italy, but in
+England it is a luxury, and somehow she and her mother had never been
+able to afford even seats in the gallery at Covent Garden.
+
+Now all her thoughts, all her fancies, were swept away in the flood of
+charming melody. The story, when she understood it, shocked and
+repelled her. It seemed strange that crime should be set to music, and
+that one should have to see abduction, treachery, vice, and a murder
+brutally committed in full view of the audience, while the tenor sang
+the lightest of all his lyrics: "_La donna č mobile_."
+
+Gemma asked for an ice during the second _entr'acte_, and Orazio
+hurried out to get one for her at the buffet. The girl looked tired,
+but she was kind to her lover in her silent, languid way, listening to
+his whispered inanities, and allowing him to hold her hand, though her
+flesh shrank from the damp clamminess of his grasp, and she hated his
+nearness and wished him away.
+
+The man who sat alone now in the stage box could see no flaw in her
+composure, and she seemed to him as perfectly calm as she was
+perfectly beautiful, though he had noticed that not once had she
+looked towards the stage. She kept her eyes down, and they were
+shadowed by the long black lashes. Ah, she was beautiful! The man's
+lean brown face was troubled and he sighed under his breath. He went
+out in the middle of the third act, and he did not come back again.
+
+After a while Gemma moved restlessly. "Orazio, _per caritŕ_! Your hand
+is so hot and sticky! I shall change places with Carmela," she said.
+She released her fingers from the young man's grasp with the air of
+one crushing a forward insect or removing a bramble from the path, and
+she actually beckoned to her sister to come.
+
+Orazio flushed red and he seemed about to speak as Carmela rose from
+her seat, but the aunt interposed hurriedly.
+
+"Sit still, Gemma, you are tired or you would not speak so. The lights
+hurt your eyes and make your head ache."
+
+"Yes, I am tired," the girl said wearily. "I slept ill last night.
+Forgive me, Orazio, if I was cross. I am sorry."
+
+Her dull submission touched Olive with a sudden sense of pity and of
+fear, but Orazio was blind and deaf to all things written between the
+lines of life, and he could not interpret it.
+
+"I do not always understand you," he said stiffly, and he would not
+relax until presently she drew nearer to him of her own accord.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+The Vicolo dei Moribondi is the narrowest of all the steep stone-paved
+streets that lead from the upper town to the market-place of Siena,
+and the great red bulk of the Palazzo Pubblico overshadows it. Olive
+had come that way once from the Porta Romana, and seeing the legend:
+"_Affitasi una camera_" displayed in the doorway of one of the shabby
+houses, had been moved to climb the many stairs to see the room in
+question.
+
+It proved to be a veritable eyrie, large, bare, passably clean, and
+very well lighted. From the window she saw the hillside below the
+church of San Giuseppe, a huddle of red roofs and grey olive orchards
+melting into a blue haze of distance beyond the city walls, and the
+crowning heights of San Quirico. Leaning out over the sill of
+crumbling stone she looked down into the Vicolo as into a well.
+
+The rent was very low, and the woman who had the room to let seemed a
+decent though a frowsy old soul, and so the matter was settled there
+and then, and Olive had left the house with the key of her new domain
+in her pocket.
+
+She had bought a table and two chairs and a shelf for her books at a
+second-hand furniture shop near the Duomo, and had given her first
+lesson there two days later, and soon the quiet place seemed more like
+home to her than the stuffy flat in the Piazza Tolomei. What matter if
+she came to it breathless from climbing five flights of stairs? It was
+good to be high up above the stale odours of the streets. The window
+was always open. There were no woollen mats to be faded or waxen
+fruits to be melted by the sun's heat. A little plaster bust of Dante
+stood on the table, and Olive kept the flowers her pupils gave her,
+pink oleander blossoms and white roses from the terrace gardens, in a
+jar of majolica ware, but otherwise the place was unadorned.
+
+"It is like a convent," Carmela said when she came there with Maria
+and her aunt for an English tea-drinking.
+
+Signora Carosi had sipped a little tea and eaten a good many of the
+cakes Olive had bought from the _pasticceria_. "The situation is
+impossible," she remarked, as she brushed the crumbs off her lap.
+
+"The stairs are a drawback," Olive admitted, not without malice, "but
+fortunately my pupils are all young and strong."
+
+"You are English. I always say that when I am asked how I can permit
+such things. 'What would you? She teaches men grammar alone in an
+attic. I cannot help it. She is English.'"
+
+Gemma had been asked to come too on this occasion, but she had excused
+herself. She so often had headaches when the others were going out,
+and they would leave her lying down in her room. When they came back
+she was always up and better, and yet she seemed feverish and strange.
+Then sometimes of a morning, when Maria and the aunt had gone out
+marketing, and Carmela, shapeless and dishevelled in her white cotton
+jacket, was dusting or ironing, the beautiful idle sister would come
+out of her room, dressed for the street and carrying a prayer-book.
+Carmela would remonstrate with her. "You are not going alone?"
+
+"Only to mass."
+
+On the morning of the fifteenth of August she did not go with the
+others to the parish church at six o'clock, but she was up early,
+nevertheless. She wrote a letter, and presently, having sealed it, she
+dropped it out of the window. A boy who had been lingering about the
+piazza since dawn, and staring up at the close-shuttered fronts of the
+tall houses, picked it up and ran off with it. When Maria and Carmela
+came back with their aunt soon after seven they drank their black
+coffee in the kitchen before going to their rooms to rest. Carolina
+took Olive's breakfast in to her on a tray when they were gone. The
+English girl had milk with her coffee and some slices of bread spread
+with rancid butter. Gemma lay in wait for the old woman and stopped
+her as she came from the kitchen.
+
+"Find out what she is going to do to-day," she whispered.
+
+Carolina nodded and her shrivelled monkey face was puckered into a
+smile. She came back presently. "She is going to the Duomo and then to
+_colazione_ with the De Sancti. She will go with Signora Aurelia to
+see the Palio and only come back here to supper."
+
+Gemma went back to her room to finish her dressing. She put on a pink
+muslin frock and a hat of white straw wreathed with roses and leaves.
+Surely her beauty should avail to give her all she desired, light and
+warmth always, diamonds and fine laces, and silks to clothe her and
+give her grace, and the possession of the one man's heart, with his
+name and a place in the world beside him. Surely she was not destined
+to live with Orazio and his tiresome mother, penned up in a shabby
+little house in Lucca, and there growing old and hideous. She sat
+before her glass thinking these thoughts and waiting until she heard
+Olive's quick, light step in the passage and then the opening and
+shutting of the front door. Carolina was in the kitchen and the others
+had gone to lie down, but she went into the dining-room and listened
+for a moment there before she ventured into her cousin's room. She had
+often been in to pry when alone in the flat, and she knew where to
+look for the key of the attic in the Vicolo. Olive always kept it in a
+corner of the table drawer and it was there now. Gemma smiled her rare
+slow smile as she put it in her purse. There was a photograph of her
+aunt--Olive's mother--on the dressing-table, and a Tauchnitz edition
+of Swinburne's _Atalanta in Calydon_ lay beside it, the embroidered
+tassel of the marker being one of Astorre's pitiful little gifts. She
+swept them off on to the floor and poured the contents of the
+ink-stand over them. She had acted on a spiteful impulse, and she was
+half afraid when she saw the black stream trickling over the book and
+blotting out the face of the woman who had been of her kin. It seemed
+unlucky, a _malore_, and she was vexed with herself. She looked into
+the kitchen on her way out. "Carolina, if they ask where I am I have
+gone to church."
+
+The old woman nodded. "Very well, signorina, but you are becoming too
+devout. _Bada, figlia mia!_"
+
+Siena is a city dedicated to the Virgin, and the feast of her
+Assumption is the greatest of all her red-letter days. The streets had
+echoed at dawn to the feet of _contadini_ coming in by the Porta
+Romana, the Porta Camollia, the Porta Pespini. The oxen had been fed
+and left in their stalls; there was no ploughing in the fields on this
+day, no gathering of figs, no sound of singing voices and laughter in
+the vineyards. The brown wrinkled old men and women, the lithe,
+slender youths in their suits of black broadcloth--wood gods disguised
+by cheap tailoring--all had left their work and come many a mile along
+the dusty roads and across fields to the town for the dear Madonna's
+sake, and to see the Palio. The country girls had all new dresses for
+the _Ferragosto_ and they strutted in the Via Cavour like little
+pigeons pluming themselves in the sunshine. They were nearly all
+pretty, and the flapping hats of Tuscan straw half hid and half
+revealed charming curves of cheek and chin, little tip-tilted noses,
+soft brown eyes. Many of the townsfolk were out too on this day of
+days and the streets were crowded with gay, vociferous people. There
+was so much to see. The old picture-gallery was free to all, and the
+very beggars might go in to see the sly, pale, almond-eyed Byzantine
+Madonne in their gilt frames, and Sodoma's tormented Christ at the
+Pillar with the marks of French bullets in the plaster. All the
+palaces too were hung with arras, flags fluttered everywhere, church
+bells were ringing.
+
+Gemma passed down a side street and went a little out of her way to
+avoid the Piazza del Campo, but she had to cross the Via Ricasoli, and
+the crowd was so dense there that she was forced to stand on a
+doorstep for a while before she could get by.
+
+"What are they all staring at?" she asked impatiently of a woman near
+her.
+
+"It is the horse of the _Montone_! They are taking him to be blessed
+at the parish church."
+
+The poor animal was led by the _fantino_ who was to ride him in the
+race, and followed by the page. He was small and lean and grey, with
+outstanding ribs and the dry scar of an old wound on his flank. The
+people eyed him curiously. "An ugly beast!" "Yes, but you should see
+him run when the cognac is in him."
+
+Gemma began to be afraid that she would be late, and that He might
+find the door shut and go away again, and she pushed her way through
+the crowd and hurried down the Vicolo and into the house numbered
+thirteen. She was very breathless, being tightly laced and unused to
+so many stairs, and she stumbled a little as she crossed the
+threshold. She was glad to sit down on one of the chairs by the open
+window. The bare room no longer seemed conventual now that its
+unaccustomed air was stirred by the movement of her fan and tainted by
+the faint scent of her violet powder.
+
+Outside, in the market-place, the country women were sitting in the
+shade of their enormous red and blue striped umbrellas beside their
+stalls of fruit, while the people who came to buy moved to and fro
+from one to the other, beating down prices, chaffering eagerly with
+little cries of "_Per caritŕ!_" and "_Dio mio!_" shrugging their
+shoulders, moving away, until at last the peasants would abate their
+price by one soldo. A clinking of coppers followed, and the green
+peaches and small black figs would be pushed into a string bag with a
+bit of meat wrapped in a back number of the _Vedetta Senese_, a half
+kilo of _pasta_, and perhaps a tiny packet of snuff from the shop
+where they sell salt and tobacco and picture postcards of the Pope and
+La Bella Otero.
+
+In the old days the scaffold and the gallows had been set up there,
+and the Street of the Dying had earned its name then, so many doomed
+wretches had passed down it from the Justice Hall and the prisons to
+the place of expiation. Weighed down by chains they had gone
+reluctantly, dragging their feet upon their last journey, trying to
+listen to the priest's droning of prayers, or to see some friendly
+face in the crowd.
+
+The memory of old sorrows and torments lay heavy sometimes here on
+those who had eyes to see and ears to hear the things of the past, and
+Olive was often pitifully aware of the Moribondi. Rain had streamed
+down their haggard faces, washing their tears away, the sun had shone
+upon them, dazzling their tired eyes as they turned the corner where
+the cobbler had his stall now, and came to the place from whence they
+might have their first glimpse of the scaffold. Poor frightened souls!
+But Gemma knew nothing of them, and she would have cared nothing if
+she had known. She was not imaginative, and her own ills and the
+present absorbed her, since now she heard the man's step upon the
+stair.
+
+"You have come then," she cried.
+
+He made no answer, but he put his arms about her, holding her close,
+and kissed her again and again.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+"Filippo! Let me go! Let me breathe, _carissimo_! I want to speak to
+you."
+
+He did not seem to hear her. He had drawn the long steel pins out of
+her hat and had thrown the pretty thing down on the floor, and the
+loosened coils of shining hair fell over his hands as his strong lips
+bruised the pale, flower-like curves of her mouth.
+
+Filippo had loved many women in the only way possible to him, and they
+had been won by his brutality and his insolence, and by the glamour of
+his name. The annals of medićval Italy were stained with blood and
+tears because of the Tor di Rocca, and their loves that ended always
+in cruelty and horror, and Filippo had all the instincts of his
+decadent race. In love he was pitiless; no impulses of tenderness or
+of chivalry restrained him, and his methods were primeval and violent.
+Probably the Rape of the Sabines was his ideal of courtship, but the
+subsequent domesticity, the settling down of the Romans with their
+stolen wives, would have been less to his taste.
+
+"Filippo!" Gemma cried again, and this time he let her go.
+
+"You may breathe for one minute," he said, looking at his watch.
+"There is not much time."
+
+He drew the chair towards the table and sat down. "Come!" he said
+imperatively, but she shook her head.
+
+"Ah, Filippo, I love you, but you must listen. Did you see my
+_fidanzato_ in our box at the theatre last night?"
+
+"Yes, and I am glad he is so ugly. I shall not be jealous. You must
+give me your address in Lucca," he said coolly.
+
+Her face fell. "You will let me marry him? You--you do not mind?"
+
+He made a grimace. "I do not like it, but I cannot help it."
+
+"But he makes me sick," she said tremulously. "I hate him to touch
+me."
+
+It seemed that her words lit some fire in him. His hot eyes sparkled
+as he stretched out his arms to her. "Ah, come to me now then."
+
+She stood still by the table watching him fearfully. "Filippo, I
+hoped--I thought you would take me away."
+
+"It is impossible. I cannot even see you again until after Christmas.
+It will be safer--better not. But in January I will come to Lucca, and
+then--"
+
+He hesitated, weighing his words, weighing his thought and his desire.
+
+"And then?" she said.
+
+He looked at her closely, deliberately, divining the beauty that was
+half hidden from him. Her parted lips were lovely, and the texture of
+her white skin was satin smooth as the petals of a rose; there was no
+fault in the pure oval of her face, in the line of her black brows. He
+could see no flaw in her now, and he believed that she would still
+seem unsurpassably fair after a lapse of time.
+
+"Then, if you still wish it, I will take you away. You shall have a
+villa at San Remo--"
+
+"I understand," she said hurriedly, and she covered her face with her
+hands.
+
+She had hoped to be the Princess Tor di Rocca, and he had offered to
+keep her still as his _amica_. Presently, if she wished it and it
+still suited him, he would set her feet on the way that led to the
+streets. "Then if you wish it--" To her the insult seemed to lie in
+the proposed delay. She loved him, and she had no love for virtue. She
+loved him, and if he had urged her to go with him on the instant she
+would have yielded easily. But she must await his convenience; next
+year, perhaps; and meanwhile she must go to Lucca, she must be married
+to the other man.
+
+She was crying, and tears oozed out between her fingers and dripped on
+the floor. "He is horrible to me," she said brokenly.
+
+Filippo rose then and came to her; he loved her in his way, and she
+moved him as no woman had done yet.
+
+"Why need you marry him? Do not. Wait for me here and I will surely
+come for you," he said as he drew her to him.
+
+She hid her face on his shoulder. "I dare not send him away," she
+whispered. "All Siena would laugh at me, and I should be ashamed to be
+seen. No other man would ever take me after such a scandal. Besides,
+you know I must be married. You know that, Filippo! And if you did not
+come--"
+
+"I shall come."
+
+She clung to him in silence for a while before she spoke again.
+
+"Why not until January?"
+
+"You will be good if I tell you?" he asked when he had kissed her.
+
+"Yes, yes; only hold me."
+
+"Gemma, you must know that I am poor. I have told you often how the
+palace in Florence is shabby, eaten up with moth and rust. The Villa
+at Certaldo is falling into ruins too. I am poor."
+
+"You have an automobile, servants, horses; you stay here at the best
+hotel."
+
+"I should not be poor for a _contadino_ but I am for a prince," he
+said impatiently and with emphasis. "Believe me, I want money, and I
+must have it. I cannot steal it or earn it, or win it in the lottery
+unfortunately, so I must marry it."
+
+She cowered down as though he had struck her, and made an effort to
+escape from him, but he held her fast. She tried to speak, but the
+pain in her throat prevented her from uttering an articulate sound.
+
+"Do not think of the woman," he said hurriedly. "You need not. I do
+not. Once I am married I shall go my own way, of course, but her
+father is in Naples now, and he is a tiresome old fool."
+
+"_Santissimo Dio!_" she gasped presently. "When--when--"
+
+"In December."
+
+"Is she beautiful?"
+
+He laughed as he gave the answer she hoped for. "She is an American,"
+he added, "and it sets one's teeth on edge to hear her trying to talk
+Italian. Her accent! She is a small dry thing like a grasshopper."
+
+"I wish she was dead."
+
+He set himself to soothe and comfort her, but it was not easy.
+
+"I might as well be ugly," she cried again and again.
+
+It was the simple expression of her defeat. The beauty she had held to
+be a shield against sorrow and a key to the garden of delights was but
+a poor thing after all. It had not availed her, and she had nothing
+else. She was stripped now, naked, alone and defenceless in a hard
+world.
+
+"_Carissima_, be still. Have patience. I love you, and I shall come
+for you," whispered Tor di Rocca, and she tried to believe him, and to
+persuade herself that the flame in his brown eyes would burn for her
+always.
+
+Slowly, as the passion of grief ebbed, the tide of love rose in her
+and flushed her wan, tear-stained face and made it beautiful. The
+door of the room was opened, but neither she nor the man heard it, or
+saw it closed again. It was their last hour, this bare room was their
+world and they were alone in it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+The table was set for lunch out on the terrace where Astorre lay
+gazing upon his Tuscany, veiled in a shimmering haze of heat and
+crowned with August blue. The best coffee cups of majolica ware had
+been set out, and signora had made a _zabajone_ in honour of
+_Ferragosto_. It was meant to please Olive, who was childishly fond of
+its thick yellow sweetness, but she seemed restless and depressed;
+Astorre looked ill, and his mother's eyes were anxious as they dwelt
+on him, and so the dainty was eaten in silence, and passed away
+unhonoured and unsung as though it were humble pie or a funeral baked
+meat.
+
+Later in the afternoon, when the signora had gone to lie down, Astorre
+began to ask questions.
+
+"Is your face hot?"
+
+"Yes--no--what makes you think--"
+
+"You are flushed," he said bluntly, "and you will not meet my eyes.
+Why? Why?"
+
+"Don't ask," she answered. "I cannot tell you."
+
+The haggard, aquiline face changed and hardened. "Someone has been
+rude to you, or has frightened you."
+
+"No." She moved away to escape the inquisition of his eyes. "Some of
+these plants want water. I shall fetch some." She was going in when
+he called to her.
+
+"Olive," he said haltingly. "Perhaps we ought to have told you before.
+My mother heard of some people who want an English governess from a
+friend of hers who is a music mistress in Florence. They are rich and
+would pay well, and we should have told you when we heard of it, three
+days ago, but I could not bear the thought of your leaving Siena
+while--while I am still here. But if those people in the Piazza
+Tolomei are unkind--"
+
+She came back then and sat down beside him. "I do not want to leave
+Siena," she said gently.
+
+"Thank you," he answered, and added: "It will not be for long. Why
+should I pretend to you?" he went on. "I have suffered, but now I have
+no pain at all, only I am very weak. Look!"
+
+He held up his hand; it was yellowish white and so thin as to be
+almost transparent, and it seemed to Olive to be most pathetic because
+it was not very small or very finely made. It held the broken promise
+of power, she thought sorrowfully, and she stroked the outstretched
+palm gently as though it were a half-frozen bird that she would bring
+to life again.
+
+He closed his eyes, smiling. "Ah, your little fingers are soft and
+warm."
+
+"You were at the theatre last night," he said presently. "Fausto saw
+you. How do you like your cousin's _fidanzato_?"
+
+"Not at all."
+
+"Olive, do you know that they say strange things about the Odalisque?
+I am afraid there will be trouble if her Lucchese hears--"
+
+"I do not care to hear that nickname," she said coldly. "It is
+impertinent and absurd."
+
+"Oh, do not let go of my hand," he implored. "Keep on stroking it. I
+love it! I love it! If I were a cat you would hear me purring. Tell me
+about England and Shakespeare and Shelley. Anything. I will be good."
+
+"I--I have not brought the book I promised you. I would have fetched
+it on my way here, but--but I had not the key. I am sorry, _nino_.
+Yes, let us talk of nice things."
+
+She was quick to relent, and soon seemed to be herself again, and he
+kept his fever-bright eyes on her, watching her as in the old days men
+may have watched the stars as they waited for the dawn that was to see
+them pass by the Vicolo dei Moribondi.
+
+Soon, very soon, Signora Aurelia would come out to them, and she would
+stay beside her son while Olive went to put on her hat, and then they
+would say "_Addio_" and leave him. And perhaps he would indeed go to
+God, or to some place where he would see the dear ones no more. The
+boy's beautiful lips were shut close, but the grey eyes darkened and
+dilated painfully.
+
+"Astorre! Are you ill? Do not look so. Oh, I will not go to the
+Palio. I will stay with you."
+
+"No, you must go, and to-morrow you can tell me all about it. But will
+you kiss me now? Do."
+
+"You need not ask twice, dear Astorre," she whispered, as she leant
+over him and touched his forehead with her lips.
+
+"_Ma che!_" he said ungratefully. "That's nothing. Kiss me properly
+and at once."
+
+When the boy's mother came out on to the terrace a moment later
+Olive's blue eyes were full of tears and the rose flush of her cheeks
+had deepened, but she looked at her friend very kindly as she uttered
+the word he had been afraid to hear.
+
+"_Addio!_"
+
+The Piazza del Campo was crowded as the Signora Aurelia and Olive
+passed through it to their seats on the second best stand, and the
+_carabinieri_ were clearing the course. The thousands of people in the
+central space, who had been chewing melon seeds, fanning themselves,
+and talking vociferously as they waited, grew quieter, and all began
+to look one way towards the narrow street from whence the procession
+should appear.
+
+Olive sat wedged between Signora Aurelia and an old country priest
+whose shabby soutane was stained with the mud his housekeeper should
+have brushed off after the last rains, a fortnight before. He had a
+kind, worn face that smiled when Olive helped him put his cotton
+umbrella in a safe place between them.
+
+"I shall not need it yet," he said. "But there is a storm coming. Do
+you not feel the heaviness of the air, and the heat, _Dio mio_!"
+
+The deep bell of the Mangia tower tolled, and then the signal was
+given, _un colpo di mortaletto_, and the pageant began.
+
+Slowly they came, the grave, armoured knights riding with their visors
+up that all might see how well the tanner, Giovanni, and Enrico Lupi
+of the wine-shop, looked in chain mail; gay, velvet-clad pages
+carrying the silk-embroidered standards of their _contrade_ with all
+the fine airs of the lads who stand about the bier of Saint Catherine
+in Ghirlandaio's fresco in the Duomo; lithe, slender _alfieri_ tossing
+their flags, twisting them about in the carefully-concerted movements
+that look so easy and are so difficult, until the whole great Piazza
+was girdled with fluttering light and colour, while it echoed to the
+thrilling and disquieting beat of the drums. Each _contrada_ had its
+_tamburino_, and each _tamburino_ beat upon his drum incessantly until
+his arms tired and the sweat poured down his face.
+
+Olive's head began to ache, but she was excited and happy, enjoying
+the spectacle as a child enjoys its first pantomime, not thinking but
+feeling, and steeping her senses in the southern glow and gaiety that
+was all about her. For the moment her cousin's shame and sorrow, and
+her friend's pain seemed old, unhappy, far-off things, and she could
+not realise them here.
+
+The _contrada_ of the Oca was the last to go by; it was a favourite
+with the people because its colours were those of the Italian flag,
+red, white and green, and the Evvivas broke out as it passed. Olive's
+page, her cobbler's son, looked gravely up at her as he went by, and
+she smiled at him and was glad to see that he still wore the magnolia
+bud she had thrown him in his hood of parti-coloured silk.
+
+Presently they were all seated--the knights and pages with their
+standard-bearers and esquires--on their own stand in the place of
+honour before the great central gates of the Palazzo Pubblico.
+
+"Now the horses will run," explained the signora. "Many people like
+this part best, but I do not. Poor beasts! They are half drunk, and
+they are often hurt or killed. The _fantini_ lash at each other with
+their hide whips. Once I saw the _Montone_ strike the _Lupa_ just as
+they passed here; the crimson flashed out across his face, and in his
+pain he pulled his horse aside, and it fell heavily against the
+palings and threw him so that the horse of the _Bruco_ coming on
+behind could not avoid going over him. They said it was terrible to
+see that livid weal across his mouth as he lay in his coffin."
+
+"He died then?"
+
+"_Ma! Sicuro!_"
+
+Olive looked up at the window where the Menotti should have been, and
+saw strange faces there. They had not come then. They had not, and
+Astorre could not. Astorre was very ill ... the times were out of
+joint. Her cousin's shame and sorrow and her friend's pain seemed to
+come near again, and to be once more a part of her life, and she saw
+"gold tarnished, and the grey above the green." When the horses came
+clattering by, urged by their riders, maddened by the roar of the
+crowd, she tried to shut her eyes, but she could not. The horse of the
+_Dragone_ stumbled at the turn by San Martino and the rider was
+thrown, and another fell by the Chigi palace as they came round the
+second time. Olive covered her face with her hands. The thin, panting
+flanks, marked with half-healed scars and stained with sweat, the poor
+broken knees, the strained, suffering eyes ...
+
+"Are you ill, signorina?" the old priest asked kindly.
+
+"No, but the poor horses--I cannot look. Who has won?"
+
+He rose to his feet. "The _Oca_!" he cried excitedly. A great roar of
+voices acclaimed the favourite's victory, and when the spent horse
+came to a standstill the _fantino_ slipped off its back and was
+instantly surrounded by men and boys of his _contrada_, dancing and
+shouting with joy, kissing him on both cheeks, pulling him this way
+and that, until the _carabinieri_ came up and took him away amongst
+them.
+
+"The _Bruco_ hoped to win," the priest said, "and the _Oca's fantino_
+might get a knife in his back if he were not taken care of."
+
+Already the crowd was dispersing. The victorious _contrada_ had been
+given the painted standard of the Palio, and were bearing it in
+triumph to the parish church, where it would remain until the next
+_Ferragosto_. The others were going their separate ways, pages and
+_alfieri_ in silk doublets and parti-coloured hosen arm-in-arm with
+their friends in black broadcloth, standard-bearers smoking
+cigarettes, knights unhelmed and wiping heated brows with red cotton
+handkerchiefs.
+
+"I will go down the Via Ricasoli with you," Olive said.
+
+"It is I who should take you home."
+
+"Oh, I do not mind the crowd, and I know you are anxious to get back
+to Astorre."
+
+"Astorre--yes. Olive, you don't think he looks more delicate, do you?"
+
+The girl felt that she could not have answered truly if her life had
+depended on her veracity.
+
+"Oh, no," she said. "He is rather tired, I think. The heat tries him.
+He will be better later on."
+
+The poor mother seemed relieved.
+
+"You are right; he is always pale in the summer," she said, trying to
+persuade herself that it was so. "You will come to-morrow to tell him
+about the Palio?"
+
+"Yes, surely."
+
+There were to be fireworks later on at the Fortezza and illuminations
+of the Lizza gardens, so the human tide set that way and left the
+outlying parts of the city altogether. The quiet, tree-shadowed
+piazzetta before the church of Santa Maria dei Servi was quite
+deserted. Children played there in the mornings, and old men and women
+lingered there and sat on the wooden benches in the sun, but they were
+all away now; the bells had rung for the Ave Maria, the church doors
+were closed, and the sacristan had gone to his supper.
+
+A little mist had crept up from the valley; steep red roofs and old
+walls that had glowed in the sun's last rays were shadowed as the
+light waned, and black clouds came up from the horizon and blotted out
+the stars.
+
+"Go home quickly now, Olive. There will be a storm. The poor mad
+people will howl to-night in the Manicomio. I hear them sometimes when
+I am lying awake. Good-night, my dear."
+
+"Good-night."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+Olive was tired, and now that she was alone she knew that she was also
+a little afraid, so that she lingered on the way and went slowly up
+the stairs of the house in the Piazza Tolomei. Carmela answered her
+ring at the bell; her face was swollen and her eyes were red with
+crying, and the little lamp she carried shook in her hand.
+
+"Oh, Olive," she said, "Orazio says he will not marry her. He has
+heard such things about her from his friends, and even in the Café
+Greco.... It is a scandal."
+
+She put her lamp down on the floor, and took out her handkerchief to
+wipe away the tears that were running down her cheeks.
+
+Olive came in and shut the door after her.
+
+"Where is he?"
+
+"They are all in the dining-room. Aunt sent Carolina out for the
+evening, and it is a good thing, because of course in the kitchen she
+could hear everything. He sent a message to say he could not go to the
+Palio, and Gemma's head ached when she came back from church, so we
+all stayed in. He came half an hour ago--"
+
+"What does Gemma say?"
+
+"Nothing. She looks like a stone."
+
+"I must go through the dining-room to get to my room," Olive said
+uncertainly. "What shall I do? Pass through very quickly or wait here
+in the passage?"
+
+"Better go in," advised Carmela. "They may not even notice you. He
+keeps on talking so loudly, and aunt and Maria are crying."
+
+"Poor things! I am so sorry!"
+
+The two girls clung together for a moment, and Olive's eyes filled
+with tears as she kissed her cousin's poor trembling lips. Then
+Carmela stooped to pick up her lamp and put it out, and they went on
+together down the passage.
+
+The lamp was lit on the table that Carolina had laid for supper before
+she went out, and the Menotti sat in their accustomed places as though
+they were at a meal. Orazio Lucis was walking to and fro and
+gesticulating. His boots creaked, and the noise they made grated on
+the women's nerves as he talked loudly and incessantly, and they
+listened. Maria kept her face hidden in her hands, but Gemma held
+herself erect as ever, and she did not move when the two girls came
+in, though her sombre eyes were full of shame.
+
+"What shall I say to my friends in Lucca?" raved Orazio. "What shall I
+say to my mother? Even if I still consented to marry you she would not
+permit it; she would refuse to live in the same house with such a
+person--and she would be right. _Mamma mia!_ She is always right. She
+said, 'The girl is beautiful, but she has no money, and I tell you to
+think twice.' I have been trapped here by all you women. You all
+knew."
+
+He pointed an accusing finger at Signora Carosi. She sobbed
+helplessly, bitterly, as she tried to answer him, and Olive, who had
+waited in the shadow by the door, hoping that he would move on and
+enable her to pass into her own room, came forward and stood beside
+her aunt. She had thought she would feel abashed before this man who
+had been wronged, but he had made her angry instead, and now she would
+not have left the room if he had asked her, or have told him the truth
+if he had begged for it.
+
+"Many girls have been offered me," he went on excitedly, "but I would
+not hear of them because you were beautiful, and I thought you would
+make a good wife. There was Annina Giannini; she had five thousand
+lire, and more to come, and now she is married to a doctor in Lucca. I
+gave her up for you, and you are dust of the streets."
+
+Gemma flinched then as though he had struck her. The insult was
+flagrant, and it was time to make an end. She rose from her chair
+slowly, as though she were very tired, and filled her glass from the
+decanter on the table with a hand that trembled so that half the wine
+was spilled.
+
+"Orazio," she said, and her dark eyes sought his and held them so that
+he was compelled to stand still looking at her. "Orazio, I hope you
+and your ugly fool of a mother will die slowly of a horrible disease,
+and be tormented in hell for ever. May your flesh be covered with
+sores while your bones rot and are gnawed by worms. _Cosi sia!_"
+
+She crossed herself devoutly, and then drank some of the wine and
+flung the glass over her shoulder. It fell to the floor and crashed to
+splinters.
+
+The man's jaw dropped and his mouth fell open, but he had no words to
+answer her. She made a curious movement with her hands as though she
+would cleanse them of some impurity, and then turned and went quickly
+into her own room. They all heard the bolts drawn and the key turned
+in the lock.
+
+Olive was the first to speak, and her voice sounded strange and
+unnatural to herself.
+
+"She has said her say and left us, Signor Lucis. Will you not go too?
+You will not marry her. _Benissimo!_ We wish you good-evening."
+
+"You are very easy, signorina _mia_," he answered resentfully; "but I
+cannot forgive."
+
+"Who asked your forgiveness?" she retorted. "It is you who should beg
+our pardon--you, who are so ready to believe the tales that are told
+in the _cafés_ and to come here to abuse helpless women. You are a
+coward, signore. Oh, how I hate men ... Judges in Israel ... I would
+have them stoned first. _What's that?_"
+
+There was shouting in the street, and then a loud knocking on the
+house door. The women looked at each other with frightened eyes.
+
+"What is it?"
+
+Carmela ran to Gemma's door and shook the handle, calling to her to
+come out. There was no answer, and perhaps they had a dreadful
+premonition of the truth even then; Olive left them huddled together
+like frightened sheep. The knocking still continued, and it sounded
+very loud when she came out of the flat on to the stairs. She was
+beside herself; that is, she was aware of two Olives, one who spoke in
+a strange voice and trembled, and was now going down into the
+darkness, stumbling at nearly every step and moaning incoherent
+prayers to God, and one who watched and listened and was surprised at
+what was said and done.
+
+When she opened the great house door a man stood aside to let her come
+out. She looked at him and knew him to be one of the neighbours, and
+she wondered why he had run out into the street in his shirt-sleeves.
+He was pale, too, and looked ill, and he seemed to want to speak to
+her, but she could not listen.
+
+A crowd had collected about something that was lying on the pavement
+near their house wall; Olive looked up and saw Gemma's window opened
+wide, and then she knew what it was. The people made way for her and
+let her come to where the dead thing lay on its back with the knees
+drawn up. Some woman had already covered the face with a handkerchief,
+and dark blood was oozing out from under it. Olive crouched down
+beside its pitiful disarray.
+
+"Will someone help me carry her into the house?" she said.
+
+No one answered her, and after a while she spoke again.
+
+"Will someone fetch a doctor quickly?"
+
+"It is useless, _figlia mia_; she is dead."
+
+"At least"--her voice broke, and she had to begin again, making a
+painful effort to control the words that she might be quite
+intelligible--"at least help me to carry her in from the street. Is
+there no Christian here?"
+
+Two _carabinieri_ came running up now, and they made the people stand
+back so that a space of pavement was left clear; the younger man spoke
+to Olive.
+
+"We cannot move the body until the authorities come, signorina. It
+must stay where it is, but we shall guard it and keep the people off,
+and you can fetch a sheet from the house to cover it."
+
+"Oh, God!" she said, "when will they come?"
+
+He slightly shrugged his shoulders.
+
+"I do not know. We have sent to tell them. In a few minutes, perhaps,
+or in two hours, three hours."
+
+"And we must leave her here?"
+
+"Yes, signorina."
+
+"I will get the sheet."
+
+He helped her to rise from her knees. Looking down she saw a stain of
+blood on her skirt, and she clung to his arm for a moment, swaying as
+though she would fall. There was a murmur among the people of pity and
+sympathy. "_Poveretta! Che disgrazia!_"
+
+"_Coraggio!_" the _carabiniere_ said gently.
+
+Up again, up all the dark stairs, wondering if the others knew and
+were afraid to come down, wondering if there had been much pain,
+wondering if it was not all a dreadful dream from which she must wake
+presently. They knew.
+
+The younger girl met her cousin at the door; Maria had fainted, and
+_la zia_ was hysterical; as to Orazio, he was sitting on the sofa
+crying, with his mean, mouse-coloured head buried in the cushions.
+
+"I looked out of your bedroom window as I could not get into her
+room," whispered Carmela. "Oh, Olive, what shall we do?"
+
+"I am going to take down a sheet as they will not let us bring her in.
+You can come with me, and we will stay beside her and say prayers."
+
+"Yes, yes. Oh, Olive, that is a good idea."
+
+The two came out into the street together and spread the white linen
+covering carefully over the stark body before they knelt, one on each
+side. Of the thousands who had filled the Piazzale at sunset hundreds
+came now to see them mourning the broken thing that lay between.
+Olive was aware of many faces, of the murmuring of a great crowd, and
+shame was added to the horror that held her fast. She folded her hands
+and tried to keep her eyes fixed upon them. Then she began to pray
+aloud.
+
+"_Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum--_"
+
+The clear voice was tremulous at first, but it gathered strength as it
+went on, and Carmela said the words too. The men in the crowd
+uncovered, and the women crossed themselves.
+
+Rain was falling now, slowly at first and in heavy drops that splashed
+upon the stones, and there was a threatening sound--a rumbling of
+thunder--away in the south.
+
+Olive knew no more prayers in Latin, but her cousin began the
+Miserere.
+
+"_Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam, et secundum
+multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam._"
+
+Among the many who had come to look their last upon the Odalisque were
+men who had made free with her poor name, had been unsparing in their
+utterance of the truth concerning her and ready to drag her down, and
+some of these moved away now shamefacedly, but more stayed, and one
+after another took up the words.
+
+"_Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea: et a peccato meo munda me._"
+
+Gemma herself had trodden out the fire that consumed her, but who
+could dare say of the grey cold ashes, "These are altogether vile."
+
+"_Tibi soli peccavi, et malum coram te feci: ut justificeris in
+sermonibus tuis et vincas cum judicaris._"
+
+She had sinned, and she had been punished; she had suffered fear and
+shame.
+
+"_Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor, lavabis me, et super nivem
+dealbabor._"
+
+There had been some taint in her blood, some flaw in her will.
+
+"_Cor mundum crea in me, Deus, et spiritum rectum innova in visceribus
+meis._"
+
+A dark-eyed slender boy, wearing the green and white and scarlet of
+his _contrade_, pushed his way to the front presently. It was Romeo,
+and he carried a great bunch of magnolia blossoms.
+
+"Oh, signorina," he said, half crying, "the _alfieri_ and I wanted to
+give you these because you brought us good luck so that we won the
+Palio. I little thought--"
+
+He stopped short, hesitating, and afraid to come nearer. He thought
+she looked like one of the stone angels that kneel on the sculptured
+tombs in the Campo Santo; her face seemed rough hewn in the harsh
+white glare of the electric light, so deep were the shadows under her
+eyes and the lines of pain about the praying lips. His heart ached
+with pity for her.
+
+"Give them to me," she said, and he was allowed to come into the space
+that the _carabiniere_ kept clear.
+
+He thrust the bunch hurriedly into her hands, faltering, "_Dio vi
+benedica_."
+
+"_Andatevi con Dio_," she replied, and then laid the pale flowers and
+the shimmering green crown of leaves down upon the still breast.
+"Gemma, if ever I hurt you, forgive me now!"
+
+It was raining heavily, and as the sheet grew damp it clung more
+closely to the body of the girl who lay there with arms outstretched
+and knees drawn up as though she were nailed to a cross.
+
+The boy still lingered. "You will be drenched. Go into the house," he
+urged. Then, seeing he could not move her, he took off his velvet
+embroidered cloak and put it about her shoulders. A woman in the crowd
+came forward with a shawl for Carmela.
+
+So the hours passed.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK II.--FLORENCE
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+October can be cold enough sometimes in the Val d'Arno when the snow
+falls on the Apennines, and the woods of Vallombrosa are sere, and
+Florence, the flower city, lies then at the mercy of the winds. Mamie
+Whittaker, who, in her own phrase, "hated to be blown about anyhow,"
+had not been out all day. She lolled in an armchair before a crackling
+fire of olive wood in the room that she "lit with herself when alone,"
+though scarcely in the Tennysonian sense. Hers was a vivid
+personality, and older women who disliked her called her flamboyant,
+and referred to an evident touch of the tar-brush that would make her
+socially impossible in America though it passed unnoticed in Italy.
+Her age was seventeen, and she dressed after Carmen to please herself,
+and read Gyp with the same intention. She was absorbed now in _Les
+Amoureux_, and had to be told twice that her cousin had come before
+she would look up.
+
+"Miss Marvel? Show her in."
+
+She rose and went forward to greet her relative, whom she had not
+seen for some years, and the two met at the door and kissed each other
+with enthusiasm.
+
+"Edna! My! Well, you have not grown anyway. What a tiny thing! Come
+and sit down right here." She rang for tea while her visitor slowly
+and rather shyly divested herself of her sables and laid them on a
+side table. Edna Marvel was the elder of the two by three years, but
+she was so small that she seemed a mere child. Her sallow little face
+resembled that of a tired monkey, yet it had an elfin charm, and her
+hands were beautiful as carved toys of ivory made in the East for a
+king's son to play with. They might hold a man's heart perhaps, but
+Mamie did not notice them, her own allurements being of more obvious
+description.
+
+She thought Edna was real homely, and her spirits rose accordingly.
+"Where are you staying?"
+
+"At the Bristol. Poppa guessed we would take a villa later on if we
+felt like it."
+
+Mamie rang again. "Bring some more cakes, and tell Miss Agar to come
+and pour out the tea."
+
+"Who is Miss Agar?"
+
+"My companion, a sort of governess person. She takes me out walks, and
+sits by when my music-master comes, and so forth. She is new, and she
+won't do, but I may as well make her useful while she stays."
+
+"Why won't she do?"
+
+"Oh, she just won't. Momma don't like her much, and I'm not singing
+her praises."
+
+Edna looked curiously at the slender girl in the black dress who came
+in and took her place at the table.
+
+She said "Good afternoon" in her pleasant little voice.
+
+The governess person seemed rather surprised that she should address
+her.
+
+"Good afternoon," she replied. "Do you take milk and sugar?"
+
+"Bring them round for us to help ourselves," dictated Mamie.
+
+Olive only smiled as she repeated her question, but Edna was
+distressed at her cousin's rudeness, and her sensitive face was quite
+pink as she hurriedly declined sugar. She came to the table to fetch
+her cup, but Miss Whittaker waited for hers to be brought to her.
+
+"How do you like this room, Edna? I had it fixed up for myself, and
+everything in it is mine." She looked complacently up at the hangings
+of primrose silk that hid the fifteenth century frescoes on the walls.
+
+Her cousin hesitated. "I guess it must have cost some."
+
+"Yes. The Marchese does not like it. He is so set on his worm-eaten
+old tapestries and carved chairs, and he wanted momma to refurnish the
+palace to match, but not she! Louis Quinze, she said, and Louis
+Quinze it is, more or less. I tell the Marchese that if he is so fond
+of the musty Middle Ages he ought to go about in armour himself by
+rights. But the old sinner is not really a bit romantic."
+
+It occurred to Olive that the right kind of governess would utter a
+word in season. "It is not usual for young girls to refer to their
+stepfathers as you do," she said drily.
+
+"Wait until you know mine better," Mamie answered unabashed. "Last
+night he said your complexion was miraculous. Next thing he'll try if
+it comes off. Are you coming to dinner to-night, Edna?"
+
+"Yes, auntie asked us. The--the Prince will be here, won't he?"
+
+Mamie looked down her nose. "Oh, yes," she said carelessly. "Your beau
+will come. People generally do when we ask them. The food is all
+right, and we have real good music afterwards sometimes. You know
+Avenel stays in Florence whiles because his brother has a Villa at
+Settignano. Well, momma guessed she would get him to play here for
+nothing once. Of course she was willing to pay any money for him
+really, but she just thought she would try it on. She asked him to
+dinner with a lot of other people, and made him take her in, though
+there were two Neapolitan dukes among the guests. The food was
+first-rate; she had told the cook to do his best, and she really
+thought the _entrée_ would have made Vitellius sit up. It was
+perfect. Well, afterwards she asked Avenel to play, and he just smiled
+and said he could not. Why, she said, he gave a recital the day before
+for nothing, for a charity, and played the people's souls out of their
+bodies, made them act crazy, as he always does. Couldn't he play for
+friendship? No, he said, he couldn't just then because one must be
+filled with sorrow oneself before one can make others feel, and he
+inferred that he had no room even for regret. 'I play Chopin on a
+biscuit,' he said."
+
+"He must be rather a pig," was Edna's comment.
+
+"Not a bit of it. Momma said he really had not eaten much; in fact she
+had noticed that he left a bit of that lovely _entrée_. Perhaps he is
+afraid of getting fat. Momma was real mad with him."
+
+Olive's cheeks were flushed and her hands trembled as she arranged the
+cups on the tray. She was thankful for the shelter afforded by the
+great silver tea-pot. Mamie's back was turned to her, but Edna seemed
+desirous of including her in the conversation.
+
+"Have you heard Avenel, Miss Agar?" she asked presently in her gentle,
+drawling way.
+
+"No. Is he very famous? I have never heard of him as a pianist."
+
+"Oh, his professional name is Meryon, of course. He is billed as that
+and known all the world over, though he only began to play in public
+three years ago when his wife left him. She was always a horrid woman,
+and she made him marry her when he was quite a boy, they say. They say
+he plays to forget things as other men take to drink. He has been
+twice to New York, and I know a girl who says he gave her a lock of
+his hair, but I don't believe her. It is dark brown, almost black, but
+I guess she cut it off a switch. He's not that kind."
+
+Olive said nothing.
+
+"You need not stay if you don't want to," Mamie said unceremoniously.
+"Be ready to come down after dinner. I might want you to play my
+accompaniments."
+
+"I can't think why you say she won't do," cried Edna when she was gone
+out of the room. "I call her perfectly sweet. Rather sad-looking, but
+just lovely."
+
+Mamie sniffed. "Glad you admire her," she said.
+
+The governess was expected to appear at luncheon, but dinner was
+served to her in her own room, where she must sit in solitary state,
+dressed in her best and waiting for a summons, until eleven o'clock,
+when she might assume that she would not be wanted and go to bed. This
+evening Olive lingered rather anxiously over her dressing, trying to
+make the best of herself, since it seemed that she was really to come
+down to-night into the yellow drawing-room where she spent so many
+weary hours of a morning listening to Mamie scraping her Strad while
+the German who was supposed to teach her possessed his soul in
+patience. She put on her black silk dress. It was a guinea robe bought
+at a sale in Oxford Street the year before, a reach-me-down garment
+for women to sneer at and men to describe vaguely as something dark,
+and she hated the poor thing.
+
+Most women believe that the men who like them in cotton frocks would
+adore them in cloth of gold, and are convinced that the secret of
+Cleopatra's charm lay in her extensive wardrobe.
+
+Avenel. It had shocked Olive to hear his name uttered by alien lips,
+as it hurt her to suppose that he came often to the Palazzo Lorenzoni.
+She would not suppose it, and, indeed, nothing that Mamie had said
+could lead her to think that he was a friend of the family. They had
+clutched at him greedily, and he had repaid with an impertinence. That
+was all.
+
+The third footman, whose duty it was to attend upon her, brought two
+covered dishes on a tray at eight o'clock, and soon after nine he came
+again to fetch her.
+
+There was a superabundance of gorgeous lackeys in the corridors that
+had been dusty and deserted five years before, and a gigantic _Suisse_
+stood always on guard now outside the palace gates. The Marchesa would
+have liked to have had outriders in her scarlet livery when she went
+out driving in the streets of Florence, but her husband warned her
+that some mad anarchist might take her for the Queen, and so she
+contented herself with a red racing motor. The millions old Whittaker
+had made availed to keep his widow and the man who had given her a
+title in almost regal state. They entertained largely, and the Via
+Tornabuoni was often blocked with the carriages and motors that
+brought their guests. Olive, sitting alone in her chilly bedroom,
+mending her stockings or trying to read, heard voices and laughter as
+the doors opened--harsh Florentine and high English voices, and the
+shrill sounds of American mirth--night after night. But the Lorenzoni
+dined _en famille_ sometimes, as even marquises and millionaires may
+do, and there were but two shirt-fronts and comparatively few diamonds
+in the great golden shining room when she entered it.
+
+The Marchesa, handsome, hard-featured, gorgeous in grey and silver,
+did not choose to notice her daughter's governess; she was deep in
+talk with her brother-in-law; but men could not help looking at Olive.
+Mr Marvel stood up and bowed as she passed, and the silent, saturnine
+Marchese stared. His black eyes were intent upon her as she came to
+the piano where Mamie was restlessly turning over the music, and no
+one watching him could fail to see that he was making comparisons
+that were probably to the disadvantage of his step-daughter.
+
+Fast men are not necessarily fond of the patchouli atmosphere in their
+own homes, and somehow Mamie seemed to reek of that scent, though in
+fact she never used it. She was clever and fairly well educated, and
+she had always been sheltered and cared for, but she was born to the
+scarlet, and everything she said and did, her way of walking, the use
+she made already of her black eyes, proclaimed it. To-night, though
+she wore the red she loved--a wonderful, flaring frock of chiffon
+frills and flounces--she looked ill, and her dark face was sullen.
+
+"The beastly wind has given me a stiff neck," she complained. "Here, I
+want to have this."
+
+She chose a coon's lullaby out of the pile of songs, and Olive sat
+down obediently and began the accompaniment. It was a pretty little
+ditty of the usual moony order, and Mamie sang it well enough. Mr
+Marvel looked up when it was over to say, "Thank you, my dear. Very
+nice."
+
+"It is a silly thing," Mamie answered ungraciously. "I'll sing you a
+_canzonetta_ now."
+
+She turned over the music, scattering marches and sonatas, and
+throwing some of them on the floor in her impatience. Olive, wondering
+at her temper, presently divined the cause of it. The folding doors
+that led into the library were half closed. No lamps, but a flicker of
+firelight and the hush of lowered voices, Edna's pleasant little pipe
+and a man's brief, murmured answers, and there were short spaces of
+silence too. The American girl and her prince were there.
+
+The Marchese had raised his eyebrows at the first words of the
+_canzonetta_, and at the end of the second verse he was smiling
+broadly.
+
+"Little devil!" he said.
+
+No one heard him. His wife was showing her brother-in-law some of her
+most treasured bits of china. She was quite calm, as though her
+knowledge of Italian was fair the Neapolitan dialect was beyond her.
+Mr Marvel, of course, knew not a syllable of any language but his own,
+and the slang of Southern gutters was as Greek to Olive. Their
+placidity amused the Marchese, and so did the thought of the little
+scene that he knew was being enacted in the library.
+
+"Shall we join the others now, Edna, _carissima_?"
+
+"If--if you like."
+
+He nearly laughed aloud as he saw the silk curtains drawn. The Prince
+stood aside to allow Edna to pass in first, and Olive, glancing up
+momentarily from the unfamiliar notes, saw the green gleam of an
+emerald on the strong brown hand as the brocaded folds were lifted
+up. Her own hands swerved, blundered, and she perpetrated a hopeless
+discord.
+
+"I beg your pardon," she said confusedly.
+
+Mamie shrugged her shoulders. "Never mind," she answered lightly. "The
+last verse don't matter anyway. Come to here, Edna. Momma wants to
+hear your fiddle-playing."
+
+"Yes, play us something, my dear."
+
+The little girl came forward shyly.
+
+As the Prince and the Marchese stood together by the fireplace at the
+other end of the long room Mamie joined them. "You sang that devil's
+nocturne inimitably," observed her stepfather, drily. "I am quite
+sorry to have to ask you not to do it again."
+
+"Not again? Why not?"
+
+She perched herself on the arm of one of the great gilt chairs. The
+Prince raised his eyes from the thoughtful contemplation of her ankles
+to stare at her impudent red parted lips.
+
+"Why not! Need I explain, _cara_? It was delicious; I enjoyed it, but,
+alas!" He heaved an exaggerated sigh and then laughed, and the young
+man and the girl shared in his merriment.
+
+"I am sorry to make so many mistakes," Olive said apologetically as
+she laboured away at her part of an easy piece arranged for violin and
+piano.
+
+"Oh, it is nothing. I have made ever so many myself, and I ought to
+have turned the page for you."
+
+The gentle voice was rather tremulous.
+
+"That was charming," pronounced the Marchesa. "Now that sonata, Edna.
+I am so fond of it."
+
+"Very well, auntie."
+
+The Prince had gone into the billiard-room with his host, and Mamie
+was with them. They were knocking the balls about and laughing ...
+laughing.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+In the Cascine gardens the lush green grass of the glades was strewn
+with leaves; soon the branches would be bare, or veiled only in winter
+mists, and the Arno, swollen with rain, ran yellow as Tiber. It was
+not a day for music, but the sun shone, and many idle Florentines
+drove, or rode, or walked by the Lung'Arno to the Rajah's monument,
+passing and repassing the bench where Olive sat with Madame de
+Sarivičre's stout and elderly German Fräulein. Mamie was not far away;
+flamboyant as ever in her frock of crimson serge, her black curls tied
+with ribbon and streaming in the wind, she was the loud centre of a
+group of girls who played some running game to an accompaniment of
+shrill cries and little screams of laughter.
+
+"Do you like young girls?" Olive asked the question impulsively, after
+a long silence.
+
+"I am fond of my pupils; they are good little things, rather foolish,
+but amiable. But I understand your feeling, my poor Miss Agar. Your
+charge is--"
+
+Olive hesitated. "It is a difficult age; and she has the body of
+twenty and the sense of ten. I am putting it very badly, but--but I
+was hateful years ago too. I think one always is, perhaps. I remember
+at school there were self-righteous little girls; they were narrow and
+intolerant, easily shocked, and rather bad-tempered. The others were
+absurdly vain, sentimental, sly. All that comes away afterwards if one
+is going to be nice."
+
+"They are female but not yet womanly. The newly-awakened instincts
+clamour at first for a hearing; later they learn to wait in silence,
+to efface themselves, to die, even," answered the Fräulein, gravely.
+
+A victoria passed, then some youths on bicycles, shouting to each
+other and ringing their bells. They were riding all together, but they
+scattered to let Prince Tor di Rocca go by. He was driving tandem, and
+his horses were very fresh. Edna was with him, her small wan face
+rather set in its halo of ashen blonde hair and pale against the rich
+brown of her sables.
+
+When they came by the second time Mamie called to her cousin. The
+Prince drew rein, and the groom sprang down and ran to the leader's
+head.
+
+"My, Edna, how cold you look! It's three days since I saw you, but I
+guess Don Filippo has been doing the honours. Have you seen all the
+old galleries and things? Momma said she noticed you and uncle in a
+box at the Pergola last night."
+
+She stood by the wheel, and as she looked up, not at Edna but at the
+Prince, he glanced smilingly down at her and then away again.
+
+"We are going back to the hotel now," Edna said. "Will you come and
+have tea, Mamie? Is that Miss Agar over there? Ask her if you may, and
+if she will come too."
+
+"I don't need to ask her," the girl answered, but she went back
+nevertheless and spoke to Olive.
+
+"Can the groom take the cart home, Filippo? We will walk back with
+them."
+
+"Yes, Bellina is in spirits, but she will not run away from Giovanni,"
+he said, trying not to seem surprised that she should curtail their
+drive.
+
+They crossed the wide gravelled space outside the gardens and walked
+towards the town by the Lung'Arno. Already the cypresses of San
+Miniato showed black against the sky, and the reflected flame of
+sunset was dying out in the windows of the old houses at the river's
+edge. All the people were going one way now, and leaving the
+tree-shadowed dusk for the brightly-lit streets, Via Tornabuoni, all
+palaces and antiquity shops, and Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where the
+band would play presently.
+
+The two American girls walked together with Don Filippo and Olive
+followed them. Edna held herself very erect, but Mamie seemed almost
+to lean backwards. She swayed her hips as she went and swung her short
+skirts, and there was affectation and a feverish self-consciousness in
+her every movement. Olive could not help smiling to herself, but she
+remembered that at school she had been afflicted with the idea that a
+pout--the delicious _moue_ of fiction--became her, and so she was
+inclined to leniency. Only seventeen.
+
+The Prince wore riding gloves, and so the green gleam of his emerald
+was hidden from her. If only she could be sure that she had seen him
+before. What then? Nothing--if she could think that he would always be
+kind to gentle little Edna.
+
+Just before they reached the hotel Miss Marvel joined her, leaving her
+cousin to go on with Don Filippo, and began to talk to her.
+
+"The river is just perfect at this hour. Our sitting-room has a
+balcony and I sat there last night watching the moon rise over San
+Miniato. I guess it looked just that way when Dante wrote his sonnets.
+Beatrice must have been real mad with him sometimes, don't you think
+so? She must have been longing to say, 'Come on, and don't keep
+talking.' But she was a nice high-minded girl, and so she never did.
+She simply died."
+
+"If she died for him she must have been a fool," Olive said shortly.
+Her eyes were fixed on the Prince's broad back. He was laughing at
+some sally of Mamie's.
+
+Edna was shocked. "Don't you just worship Dante?"
+
+"Yes, yes," answered the elder girl. "He was a dear, but even he was
+not worth that. At least, I don't know. He was a dear; but I was
+thinking of a girl I knew ... perhaps I may tell you about her some
+day."
+
+"Yes, do," Edna said perfunctorily. She was trying to hear what her
+cousin was saying to Filippo, and wishing she could amuse him as well.
+They passed through the wide hall of the hotel and went up in the
+lift. The Marvels' private sitting-room was on the second floor. They
+were much too rich to condescend to the palms and bamboo tables and
+wicker chairs of the common herd, and tea was served to Edna and her
+guests in a green and white boudoir that was, as the Marchesa might
+have said, more or less Louis Seize.
+
+Mr Marvel came in presently, refusing tea, but asking leave to smoke,
+and the Prince, gracefully deferential to his future father-in-law,
+listened to the little he had to say, answering carefully in his
+perfect English.
+
+"Yes, sir. There is a great deal of poverty here. On my Tuscan estates
+too. Alas! yes."
+
+Mamie sat near him, and in the flickering red light of the fire she
+looked almost pretty. Filippo's eyes strayed towards her now and then.
+Edna came presently to where Olive rested apart on the wide cushioned
+window-seat. "Will you have some more tea?"
+
+"No, thank you. I think we must be going soon. The Marchesa will not
+like it if we stay out too long."
+
+Edna hesitated. "I wanted to ask you a silly question. Had you ever
+seen the Prince before last week?"
+
+There was the slightest perceptible pause before Olive answered, "No,
+never. Why do you ask?"
+
+"I thought you looked as if you had somehow that night at the
+Lorenzoni palace. When we came in you were at the piano, and I thought
+you looked queer--as if--"
+
+"Oh, no," Olive said again, but she wondered afterwards if she had
+done right.
+
+On their way home Mamie drew her attention to a poster, and she saw
+the name of Meryon in great orange letters on a white ground.
+
+"He will be here before Christmas. I'll let you come with me to hear
+him play if you are good," she said, and she took the elder girl's
+hand in hers and pinched it. "I could race you home down this side
+street, but I suppose I must not."
+
+She was gay and good-humoured now, and altogether at her best, and
+Olive tried hard to like her, but she could not help seeing that the
+triumph that overflowed in easy, shallow kindness was an unworthy one.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+Olive sat alone at the end of one of the tiers of the stone
+amphitheatre built into the hill that rises, ilex clad, to the heights
+of San Giorgio. Some other women were there, mothers with young
+children, nurses and governesses dowdily dressed as she was in
+dark-coloured stuffs, but she knew none of them.
+
+Mamie seldom cared to come to the old Boboli gardens. Its green
+mildewed terraces and crumbling deities of fountain and ilex grove had
+no charm for her, and as a rule she and her friends preferred the
+crowded Lung'Arno and Cascine on the days when there was music, but
+this Thursday she had suggested that they should come across the
+river.
+
+"Daisy Vereker has promised to meet me, and as she is only here a week
+on her way to school in Paris I should hate to disappoint her."
+
+The two girls were lingering now about the grass arena, talking
+volubly, whispering, giggling. Miss Vereker's maid, a yellow-haired
+Swiss, sat not far off with her knitting, and every now and then she
+called harshly to her charge to know the time.
+
+Olive sat very still, her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on the far
+horizon. She loved the old-world silence that was only broken by the
+dripping of water in the pools. No birds sang here, no leaves fell at
+the waning of the year. The seasons had little power over stained
+marble and moss, cypress, and ilex and olive, and as spring brought no
+riot of green and rose and gold in flower, so autumn took nothing
+away. Surely there were ghosts in the shadowed avenues, flitting in
+and out among the trees, joining hands to dance "_la ronde_" about the
+pool of Neptune. Gay abbés, cavaliers, beautiful ladies of the late
+Renaissance, red-heeled, painted, powdered; frail, degenerate children
+of the hard-headed old Florentine citizens pictured in the frescoes of
+Giotto and Masaccio. No greater shades could come to Boboli.
+
+Florence was half hidden by the great yellow bulk of the Pitti palace,
+but Olive could see the slender, exquisite white and rose tower of
+Giotto, and the mellowed red of the cathedral's dome against the faint
+purple of the hills beyond Fiesole, and she looked at them in
+preference to the contorted river gods and exuberant nymphs of the
+fountain in the royal courtyard close by.
+
+After a while she opened her book and began to read. Presently she
+shivered; her jacket was thin, and the air grew chilly as the
+afternoon waned, but her reading absorbed her and she was surprised,
+when at last she raised her eyes, to see that the Pitti palace was
+already dark against the sky. Nurses and children were making their
+way out, and soon those who lingered would hear stentorian shouts from
+the gardeners, "_Ora si chiude!_" and they too would leave by one or
+other of the gates.
+
+Olive climbed down into the arena. Mamie was nowhere in sight, and
+Daisy Vereker and her maid were gone too. Olive, thinking that perhaps
+they might have gone up to the fountain of Neptune, began to climb the
+hill. She asked an old man who was coming down from there if he had
+seen two young ladies, one dressed in red.
+
+"No, signorina."
+
+She hurried back to the arena and spoke to a woman there. "Have you
+seen a young lady in red with black curls?"
+
+She answered readily: "_Sicuro!_ She went towards the Porta Romana
+half an hour ago. I think the other signorina was leaving and she
+wished to accompany her a part of the way. There was an older person
+with them."
+
+Olive's relief was only momentary; it sounded well, but one might walk
+to the Porta Romana and back twice in the time. Soon the gates would
+be closed, and if she had not found Mamie then, and the gardeners made
+her leave with the others, what should she do? She suspected a trick.
+The girl had a mischievous and impish humour that delighted in the
+infliction of small hurts, and she might have gone home, happy in the
+thought that her governess would get a "wigging," or she might be
+hiding about somewhere to give her a fright.
+
+Olive went up the steep path towards the Belvedere, hoping to find her
+there. That part of the garden was not much frequented, and the white
+bodies and uplifted arms of the marble gods gleamed ghostly and
+forlorn in the dusk of the ilex woods that lay between the
+amphitheatre and the gate.
+
+She went on until she saw a glimmer of red through the close-woven
+branches. Mamie was there in the dark wood, and she was not alone. A
+man was with her, and he was holding her easily, as if he knew she
+would not go yet, and laughing as she stood on tiptoe to reach the
+fine cruel lips that touched hers presently, when he chose that they
+should.
+
+Olive turned and ran up the path to the top of the hill, and there she
+stood for a while, trying to get her breath, trying to be calm, and
+sane and tolerant, to see no harm where perhaps there was none after
+all. And yet the treachery and the deceit were so flagrant that surely
+no condonation was possible. She felt sick of men and women, and of
+life itself, since the greatest thing in it seemed to be this
+hateful, miscalled love that preceded sorrow and shame and death. Was
+love always loathsome to look upon? Not in pictures or on the stage,
+where it was represented as a kind of minuet in which the man makes
+graceful advances to a woman who smiles as she draws away, but in real
+life--
+
+"Not real love," she said to herself. "Oh, God, help me to go on
+believing in that."
+
+Raising her eyes she saw the evening star sparkling in a wide, soft,
+clear space of sky. It seemed infinitely pure and remote, and yet
+somehow good and kind, as it had to Dante when he climbed up out of
+hell.
+
+"_Quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle._"
+
+"_Ora si chiude!_" bawled a gardener from the Belvedere.
+
+Mamie came hurrying up the path towards the hill. "Oh, are you there?"
+she said in some confusion. "I went some of the way to the other gate
+with Daisy."
+
+"I was beginning to be afraid you were lost, so I came along hoping to
+meet you," answered Olive.
+
+She said nothing to the girl of what she had seen. It would have been
+useless; nothing could alter or abash her inherent unmorality. But
+after dinner she wrote a note to Edna and went out herself to post it.
+
+The answer came at noon on the following day. Miss Marvel would be at
+home and alone between three and four and would be pleased to see Miss
+Agar then; meanwhile she remained very sincerely her friend.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+"Why do you tell me this now?" asked Edna. "The other day when I asked
+you if you had known him before you said you had not."
+
+"Something that has happened since then determined me."
+
+Edna's room was full of flowers, roses, narcissi and violets, and the
+air was heavy with their scent. Filippo had never failed in his
+_petits soins_. It was so easy to give an order at the florist's, and
+the bill would come in presently, after the wedding, and be paid in
+American dollars. There were boxes of sweets too; and a volume of
+Romola, bound in white and gold, lay on the table. Edna had been
+looking at the inscription on the fly-leaf when Olive came in.
+"_Carissima_" he had written, and she had believed him, but that was
+half an hour ago. Now her small body was shaken with sobs, her face
+was stained with tears because that faith she had had was dying.
+
+The chill at her heart made her feel altogether cold, and she edged
+her chair nearer to the fire, and put her feet up on the fender.
+
+"I wish I could feel it was not true, but somehow though I have been
+so fond of him I have not trusted him. Well, your cousin was
+beautiful, and perhaps he had known her a long time before he knew me.
+He wanted to say good-bye kindly. He was entangled--such things
+happen, I know. He could not help what happened afterwards. That was
+not his fault."
+
+Olive could not meet her pleading eyes. "I thought something like that
+last week," she said. "And that is why I kept silence; but now I know
+he would make you unhappy always. Oh, forgive me for hurting you so."
+She came and knelt down beside the little girl, and put her arms about
+her. "Don't cry, my dear. Don't cry."
+
+"Oh, Olive, I was so fond of him! Now tell me what has happened
+since."
+
+"Put your hands in mine. There, I will rub the poor tiny things and
+warm them. They are so pretty. Yesterday, in the Boboli gardens, I
+missed your cousin, and when I went to look for her I saw her with the
+Prince. He held her and was kissing her."
+
+"Oh!" Edna sprang to her feet. "That settles it. Mamie is common and
+real homely, and if he can run after her I have done with him. I could
+have forgiven the other, especially as she is dead, but Mamie!
+Gracious! Here he is!"
+
+He came into the room leisurely, smiling, very sure of his welcome.
+Olive met the hot insolence of his stare steadily, and Edna turned her
+back on him.
+
+"Olive," she said, "you speak to him. Tell him--ask him--" Her gentle
+voice broke.
+
+"What is the matter?" he asked carefully.
+
+"I saw you twice in Siena last summer. Do you remember _Rigoletto_ at
+the Lizza theatre? You were in the stage box. You wore evening dress,
+and I saw that emerald ring you have now on your finger. The next day
+you met my Cousin Gemma in my room in the Vicolo dei Moribondi. Do you
+remember the steep dark stairs and the white walls of the bare place
+where you saw her last?"
+
+He made no answer, and there was still a smile on his lips, but his
+eyes were hard. Edna was looking at him now, but he seemed to have
+forgotten her.
+
+"I suppose you loved her," Olive said slowly. "Do you remember the
+faint pink curve of her mouth, the little cleft in her chin, and her
+hair that was so soft and fine? There were always little stray curls
+on the white nape of her neck. I came to my room that morning to fetch
+a book. When I had climbed the stairs I found that I had not the key
+with me, but the door was unlocked and I saw her there with a man, and
+I saw the green gleam of an emerald."
+
+Men have such a power of silence. No woman but would have made some
+answer now, denying with a show of surprise, making excuses, using
+words in one way or another.
+
+"They were talking about you in the town, though I think they did not
+know who you were--at least I never heard your name--and that night
+Gemma's _fidanzato_ told her he would not marry her. You know best
+what that meant to her. She rushed into her own room and threw herself
+out of the window. Ah, you should have seen the dark blood oozing
+through the fine soft curls! She lay dead in the street for hours
+before they took her away."
+
+"_Santissimo Dio!_ Is this true?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Gemma--I never knew it--" His face was greatly altered now, and he
+had to moisten his lips before he could speak.
+
+"I could have forgiven that," Edna said tremulously after a while.
+"But not yesterday. Your kisses are too cheap, Filippo."
+
+"Oh," he said hoarsely. "So Gemma's cousin saw that too. It was
+nothing, meant nothing. Edna, if you can pardon the other, surely--"
+
+"It was nothing; and it proved that Mamie is nothing, and that you are
+nothing--to me. That is the end of the matter."
+
+He winced now at the contempt underlying her quiet words, and when she
+took off her ring and laid it on the table between them he picked it
+up and flung it into the fire.
+
+"I do not take things back," he said savagely.
+
+When he had left the room Edna began to cry again. "I believe he is
+suffering now, but not for me. Would he care if I killed myself? I
+guess not. I am not pretty, only my hands, and hands don't count."
+
+Olive tried to comfort her.
+
+"Poppa shall take me away right now. I have had enough of Europe, and
+so I shall tell him when he comes in. Must you go now? Well, good-bye,
+my dear, and thank you. You are white all through, and I am glad you
+have acted as you have, though it hurts now. If ever I marry it shall
+be an American ... but I was real fond of Filippo."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+Cardinal Jacopo of Portugal was buried in a side chapel of the church
+of San Miniato al Monte, and his counterfeit presentment, wrought in
+stone, lies on the tomb Rossellino made for him. Rossellino, who loved
+to carve garlands of acanthus and small sweet _amorini_, has conferred
+immortality on some of the men whose tombs he adorned in
+_basso-riličvo_, and they are remembered because of him; but the
+cardinal has another claim. He is beautiful in himself as he rests
+there, his young face set in the peace that passes all understanding,
+his thin hands folded on his breast.
+
+Mourners were kneeling in the central aisles of the church, and women
+carrying wreaths passed through it on their way to the Campo Santo
+beyond, for this was the day of All Souls, and there were fresh
+flowers on the new graves, and little black lamps were lit on those
+that were grass grown and decked only with the bead blossoms that are
+kept in glass cases and need not be changed once a year. The afternoon
+was passing, but still Olive lingered by the cardinal's monument.
+Looking at him understandingly she saw that there had been lines of
+pain about the firm mouth. He had suffered in his short life, he had
+suffered until death came to comfort him and give him quiet sleep. The
+mother-sense in her yearned over him, lying there straight and still,
+with closed eyes that had never seen love; and, womanlike, she pitied
+the accomplished loneliness that yet seemed to her the most beautiful
+thing in the world. The old familiar words were in her mind as she
+looked down upon this saint uncanonised: "Cleanse the thoughts of my
+heart by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit!" and she remembered
+Astorre, for whose sake she had come to this church to pray. Once when
+she had been describing a haggard St Francis in the Sienese gallery to
+him, he had said: "Ah, women always pity him and admire his
+picturesque asceticism, but if married men look worried they do not
+notice it. Their troubles are no compliment to your sex."
+
+Poor Astorre had not been devout in any sense, but he had written his
+friend a long letter on the day after Gemma's suicide, and he had
+asked for her prayers then. "Fausto told me how you knelt there in the
+street beside the dead Odalisque and said the Pater-noster and the
+Miserere. Perhaps you will do as much for me one day. Your prayers
+should help the soul that is freed now from the burden of the flesh. I
+cannot complain of flesh myself, but my bones weigh and I shall be
+glad to be rid of them. Come and see me soon, _carissima_ ..."
+
+The next morning his mother sent for the girl, but when she came into
+the darkened room where he lay he had already passed away.
+
+"He asked for you, but he would not see a priest. You know they
+refused to bury his father because he fought for united Italy. Ah!
+Rome never forgets."
+
+After the funeral Signora Aurelia had sold her furniture and gone
+away, and she was living now with a widowed sister in Rome. The
+Menotti had left Siena too and had gone to Milan, and Olive, not
+caring to stay on alone in the place where everyone knew what had
+happened, had come to the Lorenzoni in Florence. She had had a letter
+from Carmela that morning.
+
+"We like Milan as the streets are so gay, and the shops are beautiful.
+We should have got much better mourning here at Bocconi's if we could
+have waited, but of course that was impossible. Our apartment is
+convenient, but small and rather dark. Maria hopes you are fatter. She
+is going to send you some _panforte_ and a box of sugared fruits at
+Christmas. _La Zia_ has begun to crochet another counterpane; that
+will be the eighth, and we have only three beds. _Pazienza!_ It amuses
+her."
+
+Though Olive was not happy at the Palazzo Lorenzoni, she could not
+wish that she had stayed with her cousins. She felt that their little
+life would have stifled her. Thinking of them, she saw them, happier
+than before, since poor Gemma had not been easy to live with, and
+quite satisfied to do the same things every day, waddling out of a
+morning to early mass and the marketing, eating and sleeping during
+the noon hours, and in the evenings going to hear the music _in
+piazza_.
+
+Olive was not happy. She was one of those women whose health depends
+upon their spirits, and of late she had felt her loneliness to be
+almost unbearable. Her youth had cried for all, or nothing. She would
+have her love winged and crowned; he should come to her before all the
+world. Never would she set her foot in secret gardens, or let joy come
+to her by hidden ways, but now she faced the future and saw that it
+was grey, and she was afraid.
+
+It seemed to her that she was destined to live always in the Social
+Limbo, suspended between heaven and earth, an alien in the
+drawing-room and not received in the kitchen. One might as well be
+_déclassée_ at once, she thought, and yet she knew that that must be
+hell.
+
+If Avenel came to Florence and sought her out would she be weak as
+Gemma had been, light as Mamie was? Olive knelt for a while on the
+stones, and her lips moved, though her prayer was inarticulate.
+
+Sunset was burning across the Val d'Arno, and the river flowed as a
+stream of pure gold under the dark of the historic bridges. Already
+lights sparkled in the windows of the old houses over the Ponte
+Vecchio, and the bells of all the churches were ringing the Ave Maria
+as she passed through the whining crowd of beggars at the gate of the
+Campo Santo and went slowly down the hill. The blessed hour of peace
+and silence was over now, and she must trudge back through the
+clamorous streets to be with Mamie, to meet the Marchese's horribly
+observant eyes, and to be everlastingly quiet and complacent and
+useful. She was paid for that.
+
+She was going up to her room when the lodge porter ran up the stairs
+after her with a letter. "For you, signorina."
+
+It was from Edna.
+
+    "DEAR OLIVE"--she had written,--"I could not wait for
+    trains so papa has hired a car, and we shall motor
+    straight to Genoa and catch the boat there. I want to go
+    home to America pretty badly.--Your loving friend,
+
+                    "EDNA.
+
+    "_P.S._--I am still right down glad you told me.--E. M."
+
+One of the servants came to Olive's room presently.
+
+"La Signora Marchesa wishes to see you at once in her boudoir."
+
+The Marchesa had come straight from the motor to her own room, her
+head was still swathed in a white veil, and she had not even taken off
+her heavy sable coat. She had switched on the light on her entrance,
+and now she was searching in the drawers of her bureau for her
+cheque-book.
+
+"Ah, well, gold perhaps," she said after a while, impatiently, as she
+snapped open the chain purse that hung from her wrist. "Is that you,
+Miss Agar?"
+
+Olive, seeing her counting out her money, like the queen in the
+nursery rhyme, had stopped short near the door. She paled a little as
+she understood this must be the sequel to what she had done, but she
+held her head high, and there was a light of defiance in the blue
+eyes.
+
+"I have to speak to you very seriously."
+
+The Marchesa, a large woman, was slow and deliberate in all her
+movements. She took her place on a brocaded settee with the air of a
+statue of Juno choosing a pedestal, and began to draw off her gloves.
+"I greatly regret that this should be necessary." She seemed prepared
+to clean Augean stables, and there was something judicial in her
+aspect too, but she did not look at Olive. "You know that I took you
+into my house on the recommendation of the music-teacher, Signora
+Giannini. It was foolish, I see that now. It has come to my knowledge
+that you had no right to enter here, no right to be with my daughter."
+She paused. "You must understand perfectly what I mean," she said
+impressively.
+
+"No, I do not understand," the girl said. "Will you explain,
+Marchesa?"
+
+"Can you deny that you were involved in a most discreditable affair in
+Siena before you came here? That your intrigue--I hate to have to
+enter into the unsavoury details, Miss Agar, but you have forced me to
+it--that your intrigue with your cousin's _fiancé_ drove her to
+suicide, and that you were obliged to leave the place in consequence?"
+
+"It is not true."
+
+"Ah, but your cousin killed herself?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Her lover was in the house at the time, and you were there too?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"You were at the theatre the night before and everyone noticed that he
+paid you great attention?"
+
+"He? Oh," cried Olive, "how horrible, and how clever!"
+
+The hard grey eyes met hers for a moment.
+
+The girl's pale face was flushed now with shame and anger. "So clever!
+Will you congratulate the Prince for me, Marchesa?" she said very
+distinctly.
+
+"You are impertinent. Of course, I cannot keep you. My daughter--"
+
+The Marchesa saw her mistake as she made it and would have passed on,
+but Olive was too quick for her. She smiled. "Your daughter! I do not
+think I can have harmed her."
+
+"You can take your money; I have left it there for you on the bureau.
+Please pack your boxes and be off as soon as possible."
+
+"I am to leave to-night? It is dark already, and I have no friends in
+Florence."
+
+The Marchesa shrugged her shoulders. "I can't help that," she said.
+
+Olive went slowly out into the hall, and stood there hesitating at the
+head of the stairs. She scarcely knew what to do or where to turn, but
+she was determined not to stay longer than she could help under this
+roof. She went down to the porter's lodge in the paved middle court.
+
+"Gigia!"
+
+The old woman came hobbling out to greet her with a toothless smile.
+"Ah, _bella signorina_, there are no more letters for you to-night.
+Have you come to talk to me for a little?"
+
+"I am going away," the girl answered hurriedly. "Will your husband
+come in to fetch my luggage soon? At eight o'clock?"
+
+Gigia laid a skinny hand on Olive's arm, and her sharp old eyes
+blinked anxiously as she said, "Where are you going, _nina mia_?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Not to the Prince?"
+
+"Good heavens! No!"
+
+"Ah, the _padrona_ is hard--and you are pretty. I thought it might be
+that, perhaps. Don Filippo is like his old wolf of a father, and young
+lambs should beware of him."
+
+"Can you tell me of some quiet, decent rooms where I can go to night?"
+
+"_Sicuro!_ My husband's brother keeps the Aquila Verde, and you can go
+there. Giovanni will give you his best room if he hears that you come
+from us, and he will not charge too much. I am sorry you are going,
+_cara_."
+
+Olive squeezed her hand. "Thank you, Gigia. You are the only one I am
+sorry to say good-bye to. I shall not forget you."
+
+The Marchese was coming down the stairs as Olive went up again. He
+smiled at her as he stood aside to let her pass. "You are late, are
+you not? I shall not tell tales but I hope for your sake that my wife
+won't see you."
+
+"She won't see me again. I am going," she answered.
+
+He would have detained her. "One moment," he said eagerly, but she was
+not listening. "I shall miss you."
+
+After all she heard him. "Thank you," she said gravely.
+
+A door was closed on the landing below, and the master of the house
+glanced at it apprehensively. He was not sure--
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+The Aquila Verde was the oldest of the tall houses in the narrow
+Vicolo dei Donati; the lower windows were barred with iron worn by the
+rains of four hundred years, and there were carved marble pillars on
+either side of the door. The façade had been frescoed once, and some
+flakes of colour, red, green and yellow, still adhered to the wall
+close under the deep protecting eaves.
+
+"It was a palace of the Donati once," the host explained to Olive as
+he set a plate of steaming macaroni swamped in tomato sauce before
+her.
+
+"I thought it might have been a convent, because of the long paved
+corridors and this great room that is like a refectory."
+
+"No, the Donati lived here. Dante's wife, Gemma, perhaps. Who knows!"
+
+Ser Giovanni took up a glass and polished it vigorously with the
+napkin he carried always over his arm before he filled it with red
+Chianti. He had never had a foreigner in his house before, but he had
+heard many tales about them from the waiters in the great
+Anglo-American hotels on the Lung'Arno, and he knew that they craved
+for warmth and an unlimited supply of hot water and tea. Naturally he
+was afraid of them, and he was also shy of stray women, but Olive was
+pretty, and he was a man, and moreover a Florentine, and his brother
+had come with her and had been earnest in his recommendations, so he
+was anxious to please her. "There is no _dolce_ to-night," he said
+apologetically. "But perhaps you will take an orange."
+
+When Olive went up to her room presently she found a great copper jar
+of hot water set beside the tiny washstand. The barred window was high
+in the thickness of the stone wall and the uncarpeted floor was of
+brick. The place was bare and cold as a cell, but the bed, narrow and
+white as that of Mary Mother in Rossetti's picture, invited her, and
+she slept well. She was awakened at eight o'clock by a young waiter
+who brought in her coffee and rolls on a tray. She was a little
+startled by his unceremonious entrance, but it seemed to be so much a
+matter of course that she could not resent it. He took the copper jar
+away with him. "The _padrone_ says you will want some more water," he
+said smilingly.
+
+"Yes. But--but if you bring it back you can leave it outside the
+door."
+
+The coffee was not good, but it was hot, and the rolls were crisp and
+delicious, and Olive ate and drank happily and with an excellent
+appetite. No more listening to mangled scales and murdered nocturnes
+and sonatas, no more interminable meals at which she must sit silent
+and yet avoid "glumness," no more walking at Mamie's heels.
+
+She was free!
+
+Presently she said to herself, more soberly, that nevertheless she
+must work somehow to gain her livelihood. Yes, she must find work
+soon. The Aquila Verde would shelter and feed her for six lire a day.
+Her last month's salary of eighty lire had been paid her four days
+ago, and she had already spent more than half of it on things she
+needed, new boots, an umbrella, gloves, odds and ends. This month's
+money had been given her last night, and she had left a few lire for
+the servant who had always brought up her dinner to her room, and had
+made Gigia a little present. The cabman had bullied her into giving
+him two lire. She had about one hundred remaining to her. Sixes into
+one hundred.... Working it out carefully on the back of an old
+envelope she found that she might live on her means for sixteen days,
+and then go out into the streets with four lire in her pocket--no,
+three, since she could scarcely leave without giving a _mancia_ to the
+young man whom she now heard whistling "Lucia" in the corridor.
+
+"The hot water, signorina."
+
+"A thousand thanks."
+
+Surely in a few days she would find work. It occurred to her that she
+might advertise. "Young English lady would give lessons. Terms
+moderate. Apply O. A., Aquila Verde." She wrote it out presently, and
+took it herself to the office of one of the local papers.
+
+"I have saved fifteen centesimi," she thought as she walked rather
+wearily back by the long Via Cavour.
+
+Three days passed and she was the poorer by eighteen lire. On Sunday
+she spent the morning at the Belle Arti Gallery. Haggard saints peered
+out at her from dark corners. Flora smiled wistfully through her
+tears; she saw the three strong archangels leading boy Tobias home
+across the hills, and Angelico's monks and nuns meeting the Blessed
+Ones in the green, daisied fields of Paradise, and for a little while
+she was able to forget that no one seemed to want English lessons.
+
+On Monday she decided that she must leave the Aquila Verde if she
+could find anyone to take her for four, or even three lire a day. She
+went to Cook's office in the Via Tornabuoni; it was crowded with
+Americans come for their mails, and she had to wait ten minutes before
+one of the young men behind the counter could attend to her.
+
+"What can I do for you?"
+
+"Can you recommend me to a very cheap _pension_?"
+
+She noticed a faint alteration in his manner, as though he had lost
+interest in what she was saying, but when he had looked at her again
+he answered pleasantly, "There is Vinella's in the Piazza
+Indipendenza, six francs, and there is another in the Via dei Bardi, I
+think; but I will ask. Excuse me."
+
+He went to speak to another clerk at the cashier's desk. They both
+stared across at her, and she fancied she heard the words, pretty,
+cheap enough, poor.
+
+"There is a place in the Via Decima kept by a Frau Heylmann. I think
+it might suit you, and I will write the address down. It is really not
+bad and I can recommend it as I am staying there myself," he added
+ingenuously. He seemed really anxious to help now, and Olive thanked
+him.
+
+As she went out she met Prince Tor di Rocca coming in. Their eyes met
+momentarily and he bowed. It seemed strange to her afterwards when she
+thought of it, but she fancied he would have spoken if she had given
+him an opportunity. Did he want to explain, to tell more lies? She had
+thought him too strong to care what women thought of him once they had
+served him and been cast aside. True, she was not precisely one of
+these.
+
+The Via Decima proved to be one of the wide new streets near the Porta
+San Gallo. No. 38 was a pretentious house, a tenement building trying
+to look like a palace, and it was plastered over with dingy yellow
+stucco. Olive went through the hall into a courtyard hung with drying
+linen, and climbed up an outside iron staircase to the fifth floor.
+There was a brass plate on the Frau's door, and Canova's Graces in
+terra cotta smirked in niches on either side. The large pale woman who
+answered the bell wore a grey flannel dressing-gown that was almost
+buttonless, and her light hair was screwed into an absurdly small knot
+on the nape of her neck.
+
+"You want to be taken _en pension_? Come in."
+
+She led the way into a bare and chilly dining-room; the long table was
+covered with black American cloth that reminded Olive of beetles, but
+everything was excessively clean. There was a framed photograph of the
+Kaiser on the sideboard. In a room beyond someone was playing the
+violin.
+
+"How many are you in family?"
+
+"I am alone."
+
+The Frau looked down at the gloved hands. "You are not married?"
+
+"No."
+
+The woman hesitated. "You would be out during the day?"
+
+"Oh, yes," Olive said hopefully. "I shall be giving lessons."
+
+"Ah, well, perhaps-- What would you pay?"
+
+"I am poor, and I thought you would say as little as possible. I
+should be glad to help you in the house."
+
+"There is a good deal of mending," the Frau said thoughtfully; "and
+you might clean your own room. Shall we say twenty-four lire weekly?"
+
+The playing in the other room ceased, and a young man put his head in
+at the door. "_Mutter_," he said, and then begged her pardon, but he
+did not go away.
+
+Olive tried not to look at him, but he was staring at her and his eyes
+were extraordinarily blue. He was pale, and his wide brows and strong
+cleft chin reminded her of Botticelli's steel-clad archangel. He wore
+his smooth fair hair rather long too, in the archangelic manner, he--
+
+"Paid in advance," Frau Heylmann said very sharply. Then she turned
+upon her son. "What do you want, Wilhelm?"
+
+"Oh, I can wait," he said easily.
+
+She snorted. "I am sorry I cannot receive you," she said to the girl.
+"I am not accustomed to have young women in my house. No."
+
+She waddled to the door and Olive followed her meekly, but she could
+not keep her lips from smiling. "I do not blame you," she said as she
+passed out on to the landing. "Your son is charming."
+
+The woman looked at her more kindly now that she was going. "He is
+beautiful," she said, with pride. "Some day he will be great. _Ach!_
+You should hear him play!"
+
+Olive laughed. "You would not let me."
+
+She could not take this rebuff seriously, but as she trudged the
+streets in the thin cold rain that had fallen persistently all that
+morning her sense of humour was blunted by discomfort. The long dark,
+stone-paved hall that was the restaurant of the Aquila Verde seemed
+cold and cheerless. At noon it was always full of hungry men devouring
+macaroni and _vitello alla Milanese_, and the steam of hot food and
+the sound of masticating jaws greeted Olive as she came in and took
+her place at a little table near the stove.
+
+The young waiter, Angelo, brought her a cup of coffee after the cheese
+and celery. "It gives courage," he said. "And I see you need that
+to-day, signorina."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+Olive saw the _padrone_ of the Aquila Verde that night before she went
+to her room and told him she was leaving.
+
+His face fell. "Signorina! I am sorry! I told Angelo to bring hot
+water every time, always, when you rang. Have you not been well
+served?"
+
+She reassured him on that point and went on to explain that she was
+going to live alone. "I have made arrangements," she added vaguely. "A
+man will come with a truck to take my box away to-morrow morning."
+
+And the _padrone_ was too much a man of his world to ask any more
+questions.
+
+There had been no rooms vacant in the _pension_ in Piazza
+Indipendenza. The manservant who answered the door had recommended an
+Italian lady who took paying guests, and Olive had gone to see her,
+but her rooms were small, dark and dingy, and they smelt
+overpoweringly of sandal wood and rancid oil. The shabbily-smart
+_padrona_ had been voluble and even affectionate. "I am so fond of the
+English," she said. "My husband is much occupied and I am often
+lonely, but we shall be able to go out together and amuse ourselves,
+you and I. I had been hoping to get an invitation to go to the
+_Trecento_ ball at the Palazzo Vecchio, but Luigi cannot manage it.
+Never mind! We will go to all the _Veglioni_. I love dancing." She
+looked complacently down at her stubby little feet in their
+down-at-heel beaded slippers.
+
+Olive had been glad to get away when she heard the impossible terms,
+but the afternoon was passing, and when she got to the house in the
+Via dei Bardi she saw bills of sale plastered on its walls and a
+litter of straw and torn paper in the courtyard. The porter came out
+of his lodge to tell her that one of the daughters had died.
+
+"They all went away, and the furniture was sold yesterday."
+
+As Olive had never really wished to live and eat with strangers she
+was not greatly depressed by these experiences, but she was cold and
+tired, and her head ached, and when on her way back to the Aquila
+Verde she saw a card, "_Affitasi, una camera, senza mobilia_," in the
+doorway of one of the old houses in the Borgo San Jacopo, she went in
+and up the long flight of steep stone stairs without any definite idea
+of what she wanted beyond a roof to shelter her.
+
+A shrivelled, snuffy old woman showed her the room. It was very large
+and lofty, and it had two great arched windows that looked out upon
+the huddled roofs of Oltr'Arno. The brick floor was worn and
+weather-stained, as were the white-washed walls.
+
+"It was a _loggia_, but some of the arches have been filled in and the
+others glazed. Ten lire a month, signorina. As to water, there is a
+good fountain in the courtyard."
+
+Olive moved in next day.
+
+Heaven helps those who help themselves, she thought, as she borrowed a
+broom from her landlady to sweep the floor. The morning was fine and
+she opened the windows wide and let the sun and air in. At noon she
+went down into the Borgo and bought fried _polenta_ for five soldi and
+a slice of chestnut cake at the cook shop, and filled her kettle with
+clear cold water from the fountain in the courtyard.
+
+Later, as she waited for the water to boil over her little spirit
+lamp, she made a list of absolute necessaries. She had paid a month's
+rent in advance, and fifty-three lire remained to her. Fifty-three
+lire out of which she must buy a straw mattress, a camp-stool, two
+blankets, some crockery and soap.
+
+She went out presently to do her shopping and came back at dusk. She
+was young enough to rather enjoy the novelty of her proceedings, and
+she slept well that night on the floor, pillowless, and wrapped in her
+coarse brown coverings; and though the moon shone in upon her through
+the unshuttered windows for a while she did not dream or wake until
+the dawn.
+
+Olive tried very hard to get work in the days that followed, and she
+went twice to the registry office in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele.
+
+"Ah, you were here before." A stout woman came bustling out from the
+room behind the shop to speak to her the second time. "There is
+nothing for you, _signorina mia_. The ladies who come here will not
+take anyone without a character, and a written reference from Milan or
+Rome is no good. I told you so before. Last winter Contessa Foscoli
+had an English maid with a written character--not from us, I am glad
+to say--and she ran away with the chauffeur after a fortnight, and
+took a diamond ring and the Contessa's pearls with her. If you cannot
+tell me who you were with last I shall not be able to help you."
+
+"The Marchesa Lorenzoni," Olive said.
+
+The woman drew in her breath with a hissing noise, then she smiled,
+not pleasantly. "Why did you not say so before? I have heard of you,
+of course. The little English girl! Well, I can't help you, my dear.
+This is a registry office."
+
+Olive walked out of the shop at once, but she heard the woman calling
+to someone in the room at the back to come and look at her, and she
+felt her cheeks burning as she crossed the road. "The little English
+girl!" What were they saying about her?
+
+One morning she went into one of the English tea-rooms. It was kept
+by two elderly maiden ladies, and one of them came forward to ask her
+what she wanted. The Pagoda was deserted at that hour, a barren
+wilderness of little bamboo tables and chairs, tea-less and cake-less.
+The walls were distempered green and sparsely decorated with Japanese
+paper fans, and Olive noticed them and the pattern of the carpet and
+remembered them afterwards as one remembers the frieze, the
+engravings, the stale periodicals in a dentist's waiting-room.
+
+"Do--do you want a waitress?"
+
+The older woman's face changed. Oh, that change! The girl knew it so
+well now that she saw it ten times a day.
+
+"No. My sister and I manage very well, and we have an Italian maid to
+do the washing up."
+
+"Thank you," Olive said, faltering. "You don't know anyone who wants
+an English girl? I have been very well educated. At least--"
+
+"I am afraid not."
+
+Poor Olive. She was an unskilled workwoman, not especially gifted in
+any way or fitted by her upbringing to earn her daily bread. Long
+years of her girlhood had been spent at a select school, and in the
+result she knew a part of the Book of Kings by heart, with the Mercy
+speech from the _Merchant of Venice_ and the date of the Norman
+Conquest. Every day she bought the _Fieramosca_, and she tried to see
+the other local papers when they came out. Several people advertised
+who wanted to exchange lessons, but no one seemed inclined to pay.
+Once she saw names she knew in the social column.
+
+    "The Marchese Lorenzoni is going to Monte Carlo, and he
+    will join the Marchesa and Miss Whittaker in Cairo later
+    in the season."
+
+    "Prince Tor di Rocca is going to Egypt for Christmas."
+
+It was easy to read between the lines.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+Florence, in the great days of the Renaissance, bore many men whom now
+she delights to honour, and Ugo Manelli was one of these. He helped to
+build a bridge over the Arno, he had his palace in the Corso frescoed
+by Masaccio, he framed sumptuary laws, and he wrote sonnets, charming
+sonnets that are still read by the people who care for such things.
+The fifth centenary of his birthday, on the twenty-eighth of November,
+was to be kept with great rejoicings therefore. There were to be
+fireworks and illuminations of the streets for the people, and a
+_Trecento_ costume ball at the Palazzo Vecchio for those who had
+influence to procure tickets and money to pay for them.
+
+Mamie, greatly daring, proclaimed her intention of wearing the "_umile
+ed onesto sanguigno_" of Beatrice.
+
+"You will be my Dante, Don Filippo? Momma is going in cloth of gold as
+Giovanna degli Albizzi."
+
+The Marchese looked inquiringly at the Prince. "Shall you add to the
+gaiety of nations, or at least of Florence?"
+
+The young man shrugged his broad shoulders. "I suppose so." He was
+well established as _cavalier servente_ now in the Lorenzoni
+household, and it was understood that Mamie would be a princess some
+day. The girl was so young that the engagement could scarcely be
+announced yet.
+
+"I guess we must wait until you are eighteen, Mamie," her mother said.
+"Keep him amused and don't be exacting or he'll quit. He is still sore
+from his jilting."
+
+"I can manage him," the girl boasted, but she had no real influence
+over him now. The forbidden fruit had allured him, but since it was
+his for the gathering it seemed sour--as indeed it was, and he was not
+the man to allow himself to be tied to the apron-strings of a child.
+When he was in a good humour he watched his future wife amusedly as
+she metaphorically and sometimes literally danced before him, but he
+discouraged the excess of audacity that had attracted him formerly,
+perhaps because he scarcely relished the idea of a Princess Tor di
+Rocca singing, "_O che la gioia mi fč morir_."
+
+Probably he regretted gentle, amenable Edna. At times he was grimly,
+impenetrably silent, and often he said things that would have wounded
+a tender heart past healing. Fortunately there were none such in the
+Palazzo Lorenzoni.
+
+"I shall be ridiculous as the Alighieri, and you must forgive me,
+Mamie, if I say that one scarcely sees in you a reincarnation of
+Monna Beatrice."
+
+"Red is my colour," the girl answered rather defiantly.
+
+The Marchese laughed gratingly.
+
+Filippo dined with the Lorenzoni on the night of the ball. He wore the
+red _lucco_, but had declined to crown himself with laurel. His gaudy
+Muse, however, had no such scruples, and her black curls were wreathed
+with silver leaves. The Prince was not the only guest; there was a
+slender, flaxen-haired girl from New York dressed after Botticelli's
+Judith, an artillery captain as Lorenzo dei Medici, and another man, a
+Roman, in the grey of the order of San Francesco.
+
+"Poppa left for Monte this morning," Mamie explained over the soup.
+"He reckoned dressing up was just foolishness, but the fact is armour
+is hot and heavy, and he would have had to pass from trousers into
+greaves. He has not got the right kind of legs for parti-coloured
+hosen, someway."
+
+The Piazza della Signoria was crowded as it had been on that dreadful
+May day when Girolamo's broken body was burnt to ashes there; as it
+was on the afternoon of the Pazzi conspiracy, when a bishop was hanged
+from one of the windows of the old Palazzo. But the old order had
+changed, giving place to new even here, and the people had come now
+merely to see the fine dresses; there was no thought of murder,
+though there might be some picking of pockets. The night was still and
+cold, and the white, round moon that had risen above the roof of the
+Loggia dei Lanzi shone, unclouded, upon the restless human sea that
+divided here and there to let the carriages and motors pass. The
+guests entered by the side door nearest the Uffizi, and _carabinieri_
+kept the way clear. The crowd was dense thereabouts, and the people
+pushed and jostled one another, leaned forward, and stood on tiptoe to
+see the brocaded ladies in their jewelled coifs and the men, hooded
+and strange, in their gay medićval garb.
+
+The Marchesa's cloth of gold drew the prolonged "Oh!" of admiration
+that is only accorded to the better kind of fireworks, and hearing it,
+she smiled, well satisfied. Mamie followed with Filippo. Her dress of
+rose-coloured brocade was exquisite. It clung to her and seemed to be
+her one and only garment; one could almost see the throb of her heart
+through the thin stuff. She let her furred cloak fall as she got out
+of the car and then drew it up again about her bare arms and
+shoulders.
+
+"Who is the black-curled scarlet thing?"
+
+"Beatrice."
+
+"What! half naked! She is more like one of the _donnine_ in the
+_Decameron_."
+
+Her Dante, overhearing, hurried her up the steps. His eyes were
+bright with anger in the shadow of his hood, but they changed and
+darkened as he caught sight of one girl's face in the crowd. At the
+foot of the grand staircase he turned, muttering some excuse and
+leaving Mamie and her mother to go up alone, and hurried back and out
+into the street. He stood aside as though to allow some newcomers to
+pass in. The girl he had come to see was close to him, but she was
+half hidden behind a _carabiniere's_ broad epauletted shoulders.
+
+"_Scusi_," murmured the Prince as he leant across the man to pull at
+her sleeve. "I must see you," he said urgently. "When? Where?"
+
+"When you like," she answered, but her eyes were startled as they met
+his. "No. 27 Borgo San Jacopo. The only door on the sixth landing."
+
+"Very well. To-night, then, and in an hour's time."
+
+The press of incoming masqueraders screened them. The _carabiniere_
+knew the Prince by sight, and he listened with all his might, but they
+spoke English, and he dared not turn to stare at the girl until the
+tall figure in the red _lucco_ had passed up the steps and gone in
+again, and by that time she had slipped away out of sight.
+
+Filippo came to the Borgo a little before midnight and crossed the
+dingy threshold of No. 27 as the bells of the churches rang out the
+hour. The old street was quiet enough now but for the wailing of some
+strayed and starving cats that crept about the shadowed courts and
+under the crumbling archways, and the departing cab woke strange
+echoes as it rattled away over the cobble stones.
+
+The only door on the sixth landing was open.
+
+"What are you doing here?" Filippo said, wonderingly, as he groped his
+way in. The room was in utter darkness but for one ray of moonlight
+athwart it and the faint light of the stars, by which he saw Olive
+leaning against the sill of one of the unshuttered windows, and
+looking, as it seemed, towards him.
+
+"Come in," she said. "You need not be afraid of falling over the
+furniture. There is not much."
+
+"You seem partial to bare attics."
+
+"Ah! you are thinking of my room in the Vicolo dei Moribondi."
+
+"Yes!" he said as he came towards her from the door. "I cannot rest, I
+cannot forget. For God's sake tell me about the end! I have been to
+Siena since I heard, but I dared not ask too many questions. Was
+she--did she suffer very much before she died? Answer me quickly."
+
+"Throw back your hood," she said. "Let me see your face."
+
+Impatiently he thrust the folds of white and scarlet away and stood
+bare-headed. She saw that his strong lips quivered and that his eyes
+were contracted with pain.
+
+"No, she died instantly. They said at the inquest that it must have
+been so."
+
+"Her face--was she--" his voice broke.
+
+"I did not see it. It was covered by a handkerchief," she said gently.
+"Don't! Don't! I did not think you would suffer so much."
+
+"I suffer horribly day and night. Love is the scourge of the world in
+the hands of the devil. That is certain. She is buried near the south
+wall of the Campo Santo. Oh, God! when I think of her sweet flesh
+decaying--"
+
+Olive, scarcely knowing what she did, caught at his hand and held it
+tightly.
+
+"Hush, oh, hush!" she said tremulously. She felt as though she were
+seeing him racked. "I do believe that her soul was borne into heaven,
+God's heaven, on the day she died. She was forgiven."
+
+"Heaven!" he cried. "Where is heaven? I am not guilty of her death.
+She was a fool to die, and I shall not soon forgive her for leaving me
+so. If she came back I would punish her, torment her, make her scream
+with pain--if she came back--oh, Gemma!--_carissima_--"
+
+The hard, hot eyes filled with tears. He tried to drag his hand away,
+but the girl held it fast.
+
+"You are kind and good," he said presently in a changed voice. "I am
+sorry if I did you any harm with the Lorenzoni, but the woman told me
+she meant to send you away in any case because of the Marchese."
+
+Then, as he felt the clasp of her fingers loosening about his wrist,
+"Don't let go," he said quickly. "Is he really going to take you to
+Monte Carlo with him?"
+
+"Does his wife say so? Do you believe it?"
+
+He answered deliberately. "No, not now. But you cannot go on living
+like this."
+
+"No."
+
+He was right. She could not go on. Her little store of coppers was
+dwindling fast, so fast that the beggars at the church doors would
+soon be richer than she was. And she was tired of her straits, tired
+of coarse food and a bare lodging, and of the harsh, clamorous life of
+the streets. The yoke of poverty was very heavy.
+
+Filippo drew a little nearer to her. "I could make you love me."
+
+"Never."
+
+He made no answer in words but he caught her to him. She lay for a
+moment close in his arms, her heart beating on his, before she cried
+to him to let her go.
+
+He released her instantly. "Well?"
+
+"I must light the lamp," she said unsteadily. She was afraid now to be
+alone with him in the dim, starlit room, and she fumbled for the
+matches. He stood still by the window waiting until the little yellow
+flame of the _lucerna_ burnt brightly on the floor between them, then
+he smiled at her, well pleased at her pallor. "You see it would be
+easy," he said.
+
+She answered nothing.
+
+"I am going to Naples to-morrow by the afternoon train. Will you come
+with me? We will go where you like from there, to Capri, or to Sicily;
+and you will help me to forget, and I will teach you to live."
+
+There was silence between them for a while. Olive stared with
+fascinated eyes at this tall, lithe man whose red _lucco_, falling in
+straight folds to his feet, became him well. The upper part of his
+face was in shadow, and she saw only the strong lines of the cleft
+chin, and the beautiful cruel lips that smiled at her as though they
+knew what her answer must be.
+
+She was of those who are apt to prefer one hour of troubled joy to the
+long, grey, eventless years of the women who are said to be happy
+because they have no history, and it seemed to her that the moment had
+come when she must make a choice. This love was not what she had
+dreamed of, longed for; other lips, kinder and more true, should have
+set their seal on her accomplished womanhood. She knew that this that
+was offered was a perilous and sharp-edged thing, a bright sheath
+that held a sword for her heart, and yet that heart sang exultantly
+as it fluttered like a wild bird against the bars of its cage. It sang
+of youth and life and joy that cares not for the morrow.
+
+It sang.
+
+Filippo watched her closely and he saw that she was yielding. Her lips
+parted, and instinctively as he came towards her she closed her eyes
+so nearly that he saw only a narrow line of blue gleaming between her
+lashes. But as he laid his hands upon her shoulders something awoke
+within her, a terror that screamed in her ears.
+
+"I am afraid," she said brokenly. "Leave me and come back to-morrow
+morning if you will. I cannot answer you now."
+
+As he still held her she spoke again. "If I come to you willingly I
+shall be more worth having, and if you do not go now I will never
+come. I will drown myself in the Arno."
+
+"Very well. I will come to-morrow."
+
+When he was gone she went stumblingly across the room to the mattress
+on the floor in the farthest corner, and threw herself down upon it,
+dressed as she was.
+
+There was no more oil in the little lamp, and its flame flickered and
+went out after a while, leaving her in the dark. The clocks were
+striking two. Long since the moon had set behind the hills and now the
+stars were fading, or so it seemed. There was no light anywhere.
+
+Olive did not sleep. Her frightened thoughts ran to and fro busily,
+aimlessly, like ants disturbed, hither and thither, this way and that.
+He could give her so much. Nothing real, indeed, but many bright
+counterfeits. For a while she would seem to be cared for and beloved.
+Yes, but if the true love came she would be shamed. She knew that her
+faith in Dante's Amor, his lord of terrible aspect, made his coming
+possible. The men and women who go about proclaiming that there is no
+such person because they have never seen him were born blind. Like
+those prosy souls who call the poets mad, they mistake impotence for
+common sense.
+
+Besides, the first step always costs so dear, and now that he was gone
+and she could think of him calmly she knew that she was afraid of
+Filippo Tor di Rocca. He was cruel. Then among the forces arrayed
+against him there was the desire of that she called her soul to
+mortify her flesh, to beckon, to lead by stony ways to the heights of
+sacrifice. She could not be sure where that first step would lead her,
+she could not be sure of herself or gauge the depths to which she
+might fall.
+
+"Oh, God!" she said aloud. "Help me! Don't let things be too
+difficult."
+
+The hours of darkness were long, but the grey glimmering dawn came at
+last with a pattering of rain against the uncurtained window. Olive
+rose as soon as it was light, and before eight she had eaten the crust
+of bread she had saved for her breakfast and was gone out. On her way
+down the stairs she met her landlady and spoke to her.
+
+"If anyone comes to see me will you tell them that I have gone out,
+and that I do not know when I shall come in again. And if anything is
+said about my going away you can say that I have changed my mind and
+that I shall not leave Florence."
+
+She would not cross the river for fear of meeting Filippo in any of
+the more-frequented streets on the other side, so she went down the
+Via della Porta Romana and out by the gates into the open country
+beyond. She walked for a long time along muddy roads between the high
+walls of vineyards and olive orchards. She had an umbrella, but her
+skirts were draggled and splashed with mire and the water came through
+the worn soles of her thin shoes. She had nothing to eat and no money
+to buy food. There were some coppers in her purse, but she had
+forgotten to bring that. It was windy, and as she was toiling up the
+steep hill to Bellosguardo her umbrella blew inside out. She threw it
+down by the side of the road and went on, rather glad to be rid of it
+and to feel the rain on her face. She had two hands now to hold her
+skirt and that was better. Soon after noon she knocked at the door of
+a gardener's cottage and asked for something to eat; she was given a
+yellow lump of _polenta_ and a handful of roast chestnuts and she sat
+down on a low wall by the roadside to devour them. She did not think
+much about anything now, she could not even feel that she cared what
+happened to her, but she adhered to the resolution she had made to
+keep out of the way until Tor di Rocca had left Florence. She could
+not sit long. It was cold and she was poorly clad, so poorly that the
+woman in the cottage had believed her to be a beggar. The Prince would
+have had to buy her clothes before he could take her away with him.
+
+She wandered about until nightfall and then made her way back to the
+house in the Borgo, footsore and cold and wretched, but still the
+captain of her soul; ragged, but free and in no man's livery.
+
+The landlady heard her coming slowly up the stairs and came out of her
+room to speak to her.
+
+"A gentleman called for you this morning. I told him you were gone out
+and that you had changed your mind about leaving Florence, and at
+first he seemed angry, and then he laughed. 'Tell her we shall meet
+again,' he said. Then another came this afternoon in an automobile and
+asked if you lived here, and when I said you were out he said he would
+come again this evening. He left his card."
+
+Olive looked at it with dazed eyes. Her pale face flushed, but as she
+went on up the stairs the colour ebbed away until even her lips were
+white. She had to rest twice before she could reach her own landing,
+and when she had entered her room she could go no farther than the
+door. She fell, and it was some time before she could get up again,
+but she still held the card crumpled in her hand.
+
+"Jean Avenel."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+The Villa Fiorelli is set high among the olive groves above the
+village of Settignano. There are Medicean balls on a shield over the
+great wrought-iron gates, and the swarthy splendid banker princes
+appear as the Magi in the faded fresco painting of the Nativity in the
+chapel. They have knelt there in the straw of the stable of Bethlehem
+for more than four hundred years. The _nobili_ of Florence were used
+to loiter long ago on the terrace in the shade of the five cypresses,
+and women, famous or infamous, but always beautiful, listened to
+sonnets said and songs sung in their honour in the scented idleness of
+the rose garden. The villa belonged first to handsome, reckless
+Giuliano, the lover of Simonetta and others, and the father of a Pope,
+and when the dagger thrusts of the Pazzi put an end to his short life
+his elder brother and lord, Lorenzo, held it for a while before he
+sold it to the Salviati. So it passed through many hands until at last
+Hilaire Avenel bought it and filled it with the books and armour that
+he loved. There were Spanish suits, gold-chased, in the hall, Moorish
+swords and lances, and steel hauberks on the staircase, and stray
+arquebuses, greaves and gauntlets everywhere. They were all rather
+dusty, since Hilaire was unmarried; but he was well served
+nevertheless. He was not a sociable person, and no Florentine had ever
+partaken of a meal with him, but it was currently reported that he sat
+through a ten-course dinner every night of his life, crumbling the
+bread at the side of his plate, and invariably refusing to partake of
+nine of the dishes that were handed in form by the old butler.
+
+"It's real mean of your brother to keep his lovely garden shut up all
+through the spring," the Marchesa Lorenzoni had said once to Jean, and
+he had replied, "Well, it is his."
+
+That seemed final, but the present Marchesa and late relict of Jonas
+P. Whittaker of Pittsburg was not so easily put off. She was apt to
+motor up to Settignano more than once in the May month of flowers; the
+intractable Hilaire was never at home to her, but she revenged herself
+by multitudinous kind inquiries. He was an invalid, but he disliked to
+be reminded of his infirmities almost as much as he did most women and
+all cackle about the weather.
+
+Jean lived with him when not playing Chopin at the ends of the earth,
+and when the two were together the elder declared himself to be
+perfectly happy. "I only want you."
+
+"And your first editions and your Cellini helmet."
+
+When Jean came back from his American tour his brother was quick to
+notice a change in him, and when on the day after his Florentine
+concert he came in late for a dinner which he ate in silence, Hilaire
+spoke his mind. They were together in the library. Jean had taken a
+book down from the shelves but he was not reading it.
+
+"Bad coffee."
+
+"Was it?"
+
+Hilaire was watching his brother's face. It seemed to him that there
+were lines in it that he had not seen before, and the brown eyes that
+gazed so intently into the fire were surely very tired.
+
+He began again rather awkwardly. "You have been here a week, Jean."
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Did the concert go off well?"
+
+"Oh, well enough. As usual."
+
+"You went away alone in the Itala car before nine this morning and you
+came back scarcely an hour ago. What is the matter? Is there some new
+trouble? Jean, dear man, I am older than you; I have only you. What is
+it?"
+
+Jean reached out for his tobacco pouch. "Hilaire," he said very
+gravely, after a pause, which he occupied in filling his pipe. "You
+remember I asked you to do anything, anything, for a girl named Olive
+Agar. You have never heard from her or of her?"
+
+"Never."
+
+"Ah," he sighed, "I have been to Siena. There was some affair--early
+in September she came to Florence, to the Lorenzoni of all people in
+the world."
+
+Hilaire whistled.
+
+"Yes, I know," the younger man said gloomily, as though he had spoken.
+"That woman! What she must have suffered in these months! Well, she
+left them suddenly at the beginning of November."
+
+"Where is she now?"
+
+"That's just it. I don't know."
+
+"Why did she leave Siena?"
+
+"There was some trouble--a bad business," he answered reluctantly.
+"She lived with some cousins, and one of them committed suicide. She
+came away to escape the horror and all the talk, I suppose."
+
+"Ah, I need not ask why she left the Lorenzoni woman. No girl in her
+senses would stay an hour longer than she could help with her."
+
+"Hilaire, I think I half hoped to see her at the concert yesterday.
+When I came on the platform I looked for her, and I am sure I should
+have seen her in that crowd if she had been there. She is different,
+somehow. I played like a machine for the first time in my life, I
+think, and during the interval the manager asked me why I had not
+given the nocturne that was down on the programme. I said something
+about a necessary alteration at the last moment, but I don't know now
+what I did play. I was thinking of her. A girl alone has a bad time in
+this world."
+
+"You are going to find her? Is she in love with you?"
+
+Jean flushed. "I can't answer that."
+
+"That's all right. What I really wanted to know was if you cared for
+her. I see you do. Oh, Lord!" The older man sighed heavily as he put
+down his coffee-cup. "I wish you would play to me."
+
+Jean went into the music-room, leaving the folding doors between open,
+and sat down at the piano. There was no light but the moon's, and
+Hilaire saw the beloved head dark against the silvery grey of the wall
+beyond. The skilled hands let loose a torrent of harmonies.
+
+"Damn women!" said Hilaire, under cover of the fortissimo.
+
+He spent some hours in the library on the following day re-arranging
+and dusting his books, lingering over them, reading a page here and
+there, patting their old vellum-bound backs fondly before he returned
+them to their shelves. They absorbed him, and yet the footman bringing
+in his tea on a tray heard him saying, "I must not worry."
+
+Jean had always come to him with his troubles ever since he was a
+child, and the worst of all had been brought about by a woman. That
+was years ago now. Hilaire had been away from England, and he had
+come back to find his brother aged and altered--and married.
+
+They had got on so well together without women in these latter years
+that Hilaire had hoped they might live and die in peace, but it seemed
+that it was not to be. Jean had gone out again in the car to look for
+his Olive. Well, if she made him happy Hilaire thought they might get
+on very well after all. But he had forebodings, and later, he sat
+frowning at the white napery and glittering glass and silver reflected
+in the polished walnut wood of his well-appointed table, and he
+refused soup and fish with unnecessary violence. Jean loved this girl
+and she could make him happy if she would, but would she? She was
+evidently not of a "coming-on disposition"; she was good, and Jean
+was, unfortunately, still married to the other.
+
+It had been raining all day. The wind moaned in the trees and sighed
+in the chimney, and now and again the blazing logs on the hearth
+hissed as drops fell on them from above.
+
+"There is a good fire in the signorino's dressing-room, I hope. He has
+been out all day, and it is so stormy that--"
+
+"The signorino has come in, _eccellenza_. He--he brought a lady with
+him. She seemed faint and ill, and I sent for the gardener's wife to
+come and look after her. I have given her the blue room, and the
+housekeeper is with her now. She was busy with the dinner when she
+first came." The old butler rubbed his hands together.
+
+"I hope I did right," he said after a pause.
+
+Hilaire roused himself. "Oh, quite right, of course. She will want
+something to eat."
+
+"I have sent up a tray--"
+
+"Ah, when?"
+
+"He--here he is."
+
+The old man drew back as Jean came in. "I am sorry to be late,
+Hilaire."
+
+"It does not matter."
+
+Thereafter both sat patiently waiting for the end of a dinner that
+seemed age-long. When, at last, they were alone Jean rose to his feet;
+he was very pale and his brown eyes glittered.
+
+"Did Stefano tell you? I have found her and brought her here."
+
+"Oh, she has come, has she?"
+
+"You think less of her for that. Ah, you will misjudge her until you
+know her. Wait."
+
+He hurried out of the room.
+
+Hilaire stood on the hearth with his back to the fire. He repeated his
+formula, but there was a not unkindly light in his tired eyes, and
+when presently the door was opened and the girl came in he smiled.
+
+The club foot, of which he was nervously conscious at times, held him
+to his place, but she came forward until she was close to him.
+
+"You are his brother," she began. "I--what a good fire."
+
+She knelt down on the bear skin and stretched her hands to the blaze.
+Hilaire noticed that she was excessively thin; the rose-flushed cheeks
+were hollow and the curves of the sweet cleft chin too sharp. He
+looked at her as she crouched at his feet; the nape of the slim neck
+showed a very pure white against the shabby black of her dress, there
+were fine threads of gold in the soft brown tangle of her hair.
+
+Jean was dragging one of the great armchairs closer.
+
+"You are cold," he said anxiously. "Come and sit here."
+
+She rose obediently.
+
+"Have you had any dinner?" asked Hilaire.
+
+"Yes; they brought me some soup in my room. I am not hungry now."
+
+She spoke very simply, like a child. Jean had rifled all the other
+chairs to provide her with a sufficiency of cushions, and now he
+brought her a footstool.
+
+"I think I must take my shoes off," she said. "So cold--you see they
+let the water in, and--"
+
+"Take them off at once," ordered Hilaire, and he watched, still with
+that faint smile in his eyes, as Jean knelt to do his bidding.
+
+"That's very nice," sighed the girl. "I never knew before that real
+happiness is just having lots to eat and being warm."
+
+The two men looked at each other.
+
+"I have often wondered about you," she said to Hilaire presently.
+"Your eyes are just like his. I think if I had known that I should
+have had to come before; but you see I promised Cardinal Jacopo of
+Portugal--in San Miniato--that I would not. What am I talking about?"
+Her voice broke and she covered her face with her hands.
+
+"Oh, my God!" Jean would have gone to her, but his brother laid a
+restraining hand on his arm.
+
+"Leave her alone," he said. "She will be all right to-morrow. It's
+only excitement, nervous exhaustion. She must rest and eat. Wait
+quietly and don't look at her."
+
+Jean moved restlessly about the room; Hilaire, gravely silent, seemed
+to see nothing.
+
+So the two men waited until the girl was able to control her sobs.
+
+"I am so sorry," she said presently. "I have made you uncomfortable;
+forgive me."
+
+"Will you take a brandy-and-soda if I give it you?"
+
+"Yes, if you think it will do me good."
+
+Hilaire limped across to the sideboard. He was scarcely gone half a
+minute, but when he came back with a glass of the mixture he had
+prescribed he saw his brother kneeling at the girl's side, his arms
+about her, his face hidden in the folds of her skirt.
+
+"Jean! Get up!" he said very sharply. "Pull yourself together."
+
+Olive sat stiffly erect; her swollen, tear-stained lids hid the blue
+eyes, her pale, quivering lips formed words that were inaudible.
+
+Hilaire ground his teeth. "Get up!"
+
+After a while the lover loosed his hold; he bent to kiss the girl's
+feet; then he rose and went silently out of the room. Hilaire listened
+for the closing of another door before he rang the bell.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+For some days and nights Olive lived only to eat and sleep. When she
+woke it was to hear a kind old voice urging her to take hot milk or
+soup, to see a kind old face framed in white hair set off by black
+lace lappets; and yet whenever she closed her eyes at first she was
+aware of a passionate aching echo of words said that was sad as the
+sound of the sea in a shell. "I love you--I love you--" until at last
+sleep helped to knit up the ravelled sleave of care.
+
+Every morning there were fresh roses for her.
+
+"The signorino hopes you are better."
+
+"Oh, much better, thank you." And after a while a day came when she
+felt really strong enough to get up. She dressed slowly and came down
+and out on to the terrace. The crumbling stones of the balustrade were
+moss-grown, as was the slender body of the bronze Mercury, poised for
+flight and dark against the pale illimitable blue of the December sky.
+Hilaire Avenel never tried to make Nature neat; the scarlet leaves of
+the Virginia creeper came fluttering down and were scattered on the
+worn black and white mosaic of the pavement; they showed like fire
+flickering in the sombre green of the cypresses. Beyond and below the
+garden, the olive and ilex woods, and the steep red roofs of
+Settignano, lay Florence, a city of the plain, and wreathed in a
+delicate mist. There was the great dome of Santa Maria dei Fiori; the
+tortuous silver streak that was Arno, spanned by her bridges; there
+was Giotto's tower, golden-white and rose golden, there the campanile
+of the Badia, the grim old Bargello, and the battlemented walls of the
+Palazzo Vecchio; farther still, across the river, the heights of San
+Miniato al Monte, Bellosguardo, and Mont' Oliveto, cypress crowned.
+
+Two white rough-coated sheep-dogs came rushing up the steps from the
+garden to greet Olive with sharp barks of joy, and Hilaire was not
+slow to follow. Olive still thought him very like his brother, an
+older and greyer Jean.
+
+"I have been so looking forward to showing you the garden," he said
+hurriedly in his kind eagerness to put her at her ease. "There are
+still a few late chrysanthemums, and you will find blue and white
+violets in the grass by the sundial."
+
+They passed down the steps together and through the green twilight of
+the orange groves, and came to a little fountain in the midst of a
+space of lawn set about with laurels. Hilaire threw a biscuit into
+the pool, and the dark water gleamed with silver and gold as the fish
+rushed at it.
+
+"I flatter myself that all the living things in this garden know me,"
+he said. "I bar the plainer kinds of insects and scorpions, of course;
+but the small green lizards are charming, aren't they?"
+
+"Mamie Whittaker had one on a gold chain. She used to wear it
+sometimes."
+
+"She would," he said drily. "The young savage! Better go naked than
+torture harmless things."
+
+"This place is perfect," sighed Olive; and then, "You have no home in
+France?"
+
+"We should have; but our great-grandfather was guillotined in Paris
+during the Terror, and his wife and child came to England. Years
+later, when they might have gone back they would not. Why should they?
+Napoleon had given the Avenel estates to one of his ruffians, who had
+since seceded to the Bourbon and so made all secure. Besides, they
+were happy enough. Marie Louis Hilaire gave music lessons, and the
+Marquise scrubbed and cooked and patched their clothes--she, who had
+been the Queen's friend, and so they managed to keep the little home
+together. Presently the young man married, and then Jean Marie
+appeared on the scene. We have a picture of him at the age of five, in
+a nankeen frock and a frill. Our mother was a Hungarian--hence Jean's
+music, I suppose--and there is Romany blood on that side. These are
+our antecedents. You will not be surprised at our vagaries now?"
+
+Olive smiled. "No, I shall remember the red heels of Versailles,
+English bread and butter, and the gipsy caravan."
+
+"Jean has fetched your books from the Monte di Pietŕ. Marietta found
+the tickets in your coat pocket. You don't mind?"
+
+Looking at her he saw her eyes fill with tears, and he hurried on: "No
+rubbish, I notice. Are you fond of reading?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I was wondering if you would care to undertake a work for me."
+
+"I should be glad to do anything," she said anxiously.
+
+"I have some thousands of books in the villa. Those I have collected
+myself I know--they are all in the library--but there are many that
+were left me by my father, and others that came from an uncle, and
+they are all piled up in heaps in the empty rooms on the second floor.
+I want someone to sort them out, catalogue, and arrange them for me.
+Would you care to do it?"
+
+"Yes, indeed."
+
+"That's all right then," he said hastily. "I'll get a carpenter in at
+once to put up some more shelves ready for them. And I think you had
+better stay on in the villa, if you don't mind. It will be more
+convenient. The salary will be two hundred lire a month, paid in
+advance."
+
+"Your kindness--I can't express my gratitude--" she began tremulously.
+
+"Nonsense! This is a business transaction, and I am coming out of it
+very well. I should not get a man to do the work for that absurdly
+small sum. I am underpaying you on purpose because I hate women."
+
+Olive laughed. "Commend me to misogynists henceforth."
+
+She wanted to begin at once, but her host assured her that he would
+rather she waited until the shelves were put up.
+
+"You will have to sort them out several times, according to date,
+language and subject. Perhaps Jean can help you when he returns. He is
+away just now."
+
+Watching her, he saw the deepening of the rose.
+
+"I--I can't remember exactly what happened the night I came, Mr
+Avenel. You know I had not been able to find work, and though my
+_padrona_ was kind she was very poor too. She pawned my things for me,
+but they fetched so little, and I had not had anything to eat for ever
+so long when he came. He has not gone away because of me, has he?"
+
+Hilaire threw the fish another biscuit; it fell among the lily leaves
+at the feet of the weather-stained marble nymph of the fountain.
+
+"I must decline to answer," he said gravely, after a pause. "I
+understand that you are twenty-three and old enough therefore to judge
+for yourself, and I do not intend to influence either you or Jean, if
+I can help it. You will be perfectly free to do exactly what you think
+right, my dear girl. I will only give you one bit of advice, and that
+is, look at life with your eyes wide open. Don't blink! This is
+Friday, and Jean is coming to see you on Wednesday."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+Olive told herself that Hilaire was very good to her in the days that
+followed. He came sometimes into the room where she was, to find her
+sitting on the floor amid the piles of books she was trying to reduce
+to some kind of order.
+
+"You do not get tired? I am afraid they are rather dusty."
+
+"Oh, not at all," she assured him. She was swathed in a blue linen
+apron of Marietta's and had tied a cotton handkerchief over her hair.
+"I like to feel I am doing something for you," she said. "I wish--you
+have been--you are so kind."
+
+On the Wednesday morning she covered some of the books with brown
+paper and pasted labels on their backs. She tried not to listen for
+the creaking of the great gates as they swung open, for the grating of
+wheels against the stones, for Jean's voice calling to his brother,
+for his quick step upon the stair, but she heard all as she wrote
+_Vita Nuova_ on the slip intended for an early edition of the _Rape of
+the Lock_, and put the _Decameron_ aside with some sermons and
+commentaries that were to be classified as devotional literature. He
+did not come to her then, but she was desperately afraid that he
+might. "I am not ready ... not ..."
+
+When, later, she came into the dining-room she seemed to be perfectly
+at her ease. Jean's eyes had been fixed on the door, and they met hers
+eagerly as she came forward. "Are you better?" he asked, and then bit
+his lip, thinking he had said the wrong thing.
+
+"Oh, yes. But--but you look pale and thinner."
+
+Her little air of gay indifference fell away from her. As he still
+held her hand she felt the tears coming and longed to be able to run
+upstairs and take some more sal volatile, but Hilaire came to the
+rescue.
+
+"Well, let's have lunch," he said. "I hate tepid food."
+
+When they had taken their places Jean gave the girl a letter.
+
+"It came for you to the Lorenzoni. I called at the porter's lodge this
+morning and Ser Gigia gave it me."
+
+"Such a waste of good things I never saw," the butler said afterwards
+to his wife. "As you know, the _padrone_ never eats more than enough
+to fill a bird, but I have seen the signorino hungry, and the young
+lady too. To-day, however, they ate nothing, though the _frittata_ was
+fit to melt in one's mouth. I should not have been ashamed to set it
+before the Archangel Gabriel, and he would have eaten it, since it is
+certain that the Blessed One has never been in love."
+
+After the meal, to which no one indeed had done justice, Hilaire
+explained that he was going to write some letters.
+
+The younger man looked at Olive. "Come with me," he said abruptly. "I
+want to play to you."
+
+"I want to hear you," she said as she rose from the table.
+
+He followed her into the music-room and shut the door. "Well?"
+
+She chose to misunderstand him. "It is charming. Just what a shrine of
+sound should be."
+
+The grand piano stood out from the grey-green background of the walls
+beyond, there was a bronze statuette of Orpheus with his lute on a
+twisted Byzantine column of white and gold mosaic, and a long
+cushioned divan set on one side broke the long lines of light on the
+polished floor.
+
+"What are you going to play?" she asked.
+
+"Nothing, at present," he said, smiling at her. "I want to talk to you
+first. You are not frightened?"
+
+"No." She sat on the divan and he stood before her, looking down into
+her eyes.
+
+"I think I had better try to tell you about my wife," he said. "May I
+sit here? And may I smoke?"
+
+"Yes." She drew her skirts aside to make room for him next to her. "I
+want to hear you," she said again.
+
+"Imagine me, a boy of twenty-two, convalescing in country lodgings
+after an illness that seemed to have taken the marrow out of my bones.
+Hilaire was in Japan, and I--a callow fledgling from the nest--was
+very sick and sorry for myself. There were some people living in
+rather a large house at the other end of the village who took notice
+of me. They were the only ones, and I have thought since that my
+acquaintance with them really did for me with everyone else. They were
+not desirable--but--well, I was too young, and just then too
+physically weak to avoid their more pressing attentions. Old Seldon
+was one of those flushed, swollen men whose collars seem always to be
+too small for them. He tried to be pleasant, but it was not a great
+success. There were two daughters at home, and Gertrude was the
+eldest. She had been married, and the man had died, leaving her
+penniless. As you may suppose she had not come back to veal. I was
+sorry for her then because she seemed a good sort, and she was very
+kind to me; she was five years my senior--"
+
+"Go on," Olive said.
+
+"I used to go to the house nearly every evening. She sang well, and I
+used to play her accompaniments, while the old man hung about the
+sideboard. He never left us alone, and the younger girl, Violet, used
+to meet the rector's son in the stables then. I heard that afterwards.
+They lived anyhow, and owed money to all the tradespeople round.
+
+"One night I was awakened by a knocking outside; my landlady slept at
+the back, and she was deaf besides, so I went down myself. The wind
+put my candle out as I opened the door, but I saw a woman standing
+there in the rain, and I asked her what she wanted. She made no
+answer, but pushed past me into the passage, and went into my
+sitting-room. I followed, of course.
+
+"Well, perhaps you have guessed that it was Gertrude. Her yellow hair
+hung down and about her face; she was only half dressed, and her bare
+arms and shoulders were all wet. Her skirts were torn and stained with
+mud. She told me her father had turned her out of the house in a
+drunken fury and she had come to me. Even then I wondered why she had
+not gone to some woman--surely she might have found shelter--however,
+she had come to me. I was going to call up my landlady, but she would
+not allow it because she said that no one but I need ever know. She
+would creep home through the fields soon after sunrise and her sister
+would let her in. The old man would be sleeping heavily.... The end of
+it was that I let her go up to my room while I lay on the sofa in the
+little parlour. The horsehair bolster was deucedly hard, but I was
+young, and when I did get off I slept well. When I woke it was nearer
+eight than seven, and I had just scrambled up when my landlady came
+in. One look at her face was enough. I understood that Gertrude had
+overslept herself too.
+
+"The sequel was hateful. There was a frightful scandal, of course; the
+father raved, the women cried, the rector talked to me seriously,
+and--Olive, mark this--Gertrude would not say anything. I married her
+and we came away."
+
+"It was a trap," cried Olive.
+
+"We had not one single thing in common, and you know when there is no
+love sex is a barrier set up by the devil between human souls. After
+some years of mutual misery I brought her here. Poor Hilaire has hated
+respectable women ever since--she was that, if that counts when there
+is nothing else. Just virtue, with no saving graces. She is living in
+London now, is much esteemed, and regularly exceeds her allowance."
+
+"Was she pretty?"
+
+Jean had let his pipe go out, and now he relit it. "Oh, yes," he said,
+"I suppose so. Frizzy hair and all that. I fancy she has grown stout
+now. She is the kind that spreads."
+
+"Life is all so hateful," sighed the girl. Jean moved away from her
+and went to the window. Hilaire was limping across the terrace
+towards the garden steps. When he was gone out of sight Jean came back
+into the room.
+
+"My brother is unhappy too. The woman he loved died. Oh, Olive, are we
+to be lonely always because the law will not give me a divorce from
+the woman who was never really my wife, never dear to me or near to me
+as you are? Joy is within our reach, a golden rose on the tree of
+life, and it is for you to gather it or to hold your hand. Don't
+answer me yet for God's sake. Wait!"
+
+He went to the piano and opened it.
+
+Rain ... rain dripping on the roof through the long hours of night,
+and the weary moaning of the wakeful wind. Thronging memories of past
+years, past youth, past joy, past laughter echoing and re-echoing in
+one man's hungry heart. Light footsteps of children never to be born
+... and then the heavy tread of men carrying a coffin, and the last
+sound of all--the clanging of an iron door....
+
+The grave ... the grave ... it held the boy who had loved her, and
+presently, surely, it would hold this man too, sealing his kind lips
+with earth, closing his brown eyes in an eternal darkness.
+
+He played, as thousands had said, divinely, not only with his hands
+but with his soul. The music that had been a work of genius became a
+miracle when he interpreted it, and indeed it seemed that virtue went
+out of him. His face was drawn and pale and a pulse beat in his cheek.
+Olive, gazing at him through a blur of tears, knew that she had never
+longed for anything in her life as she longed now to comfort this pain
+expressed in ripples, and low murmurings, and great crashing waves of
+the illimitable sea of sound. Her heart ached with the pity that is a
+woman's way of loving, and as he left the piano she rose too. He
+uttered a sort of cry as she swayed towards him, and clasped her in
+his arms.
+
+"I love you," he said, his lips so close to hers that she felt rather
+than heard the words.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+Jean came to the villa a little before noon on the following day.
+Hilaire, who was in the library, heard his voice in the hall calling
+the dogs, heard him whistling some little song tune as he opened and
+shut all the doors one after the other.
+
+    "'_O l'amor e' come un nocciuola
+      Se non se apre non si puň mangiarla--_'"
+
+"Hilaire, where are you? I thought I should find you on the terrace
+this fine morning. Where is she?" he added eagerly as he laid a great
+bunch of roses down on the table. "Is her headache better? Has not she
+come down yet?"
+
+He looked across the room to where his brother's grey head just showed
+above the high carved back of his chair.
+
+"Hilaire! Why don't you answer?"
+
+In the silence that ensued he distinctly heard the ticking of the
+clock on the mantelpiece and the falling of the soft wood ashes in the
+grate; the beating of his own heart sounded loud to him. One of the
+dogs was scratching at the door and whining to be let in.
+
+"Hilaire."
+
+"She is gone."
+
+"Gone?"
+
+"Yes. She left this letter for you."
+
+"Ah, give it to me." He opened and read it hurriedly.
+
+"I thought you meant dead at first," he said. His brown eyes had lost
+the light that had been in them and were melancholy as before; he
+stood still by the table looking down upon his roses. They would fade,
+and she would never see them now. Never ... never ...
+
+"Come and sit by the fire and let's talk it over quietly," said
+Hilaire. "Oh, damn women," he mumbled as he drew at his pipe--the
+fifth that morning. It was the first time in a week that he had
+uttered his pet expletive. "What does she say?"
+
+"You can read her letter."
+
+"Would she mind?"
+
+"Oh, no," Jean said bitterly. "She loves you--what she calls
+loving--next best after me. She told me so."
+
+Hilaire carefully smoothed the crumpled, blotted page out on his knee.
+
+    "MY DEAREST JEAN,--I am going away because I am a
+    coward. I dare not live with you, and I dare not ask you
+    to forgive me. Last night as I lay awake I thought and
+    thought about my feeling for you and I was sure that it
+    was love. I used to think of you often last summer and
+    to wonder where you were and what you were doing, and I
+    hoped you had not forgotten me. I did not love you then,
+    but I suppose my thoughts of you kept my heart's door
+    open for you, and certainly they helped to keep out
+    someone else who came and tried to get admittance. Oh,
+    one must suffer to keep love perfect, but isn't it worth
+    while? You may not believe me now when I say that if I
+    cared for you less I should stay, but it is true. Oh,
+    Jean, even when we were so happy for a few minutes
+    yesterday something in me looked beyond into the years
+    to come and was afraid. Not of you; I trust you,
+    dearest; but of the world. Men would stare at me and
+    laugh and whisper together, and women would look away,
+    and I know I should not be able to bear it. I am not
+    brave like that. Oh, every word I write must hurt you, I
+    know. Remember that I love you now and shall always.
+    Good-bye.--Your
+
+                    "OLIVE."
+
+"I should keep this."
+
+"I am going to. Hilaire, did you know she was going? Did she tell
+you?"
+
+The older man answered quietly: "Yes, I knew, and I sent her to the
+station in the motor. I had promised a strict neutrality, Jean, and
+she was right to go. Some women, good women, may be strong enough to
+bear all the suffering that is entailed upon them by a known
+irregularity in their lives. She is not. It would probably have killed
+her though I am not saying that she would not have been happy
+sometimes, when she could forget her shame."
+
+Jean flinched as though his brother had struck him. "Don't use that
+word."
+
+"Well, what else would it be? What else would the world call it? And
+women listen to what the world says. 'Good name in man or woman is the
+immediate jewel of their souls'; Othello said something like that, and
+it's often true. Besides, you know, this woman is pure in herself, and
+from what she told me I understand that she has seen something of the
+seamy side of love lately--enough to inspire her with dread. She is
+afraid, and her fear is exquisite; a very fine and rare thing. It is
+the bloom on the fruit and should not be brushed off with an ungentle
+hand. Poor child! Don't blame her as she blames herself or I shall
+begin to think she is too good for you."
+
+Jean sat leaning forward staring into the fire.
+
+"Do you realise that when I brought her here it was from starvation in
+a garret? Where is she going? What will she do? Oh, God! The poor
+little slender body! Do you remember she said it was happiness just to
+be warm and have enough to eat?"
+
+"That's all right," Hilaire said hastily. "She is going to a good
+woman, a friend she made in Siena. The letter you brought was from
+her, and she wrote to say she had been ill and wished Olive could come
+and be with her for a while."
+
+"I see! And she was glad to get away."
+
+"My dear man, did you really think she would be so easily won? She
+loves you, and you not only made love to her yesterday afternoon; you
+played to her--I heard you--and I knew she would have to say 'Yes' to
+everything. Now she says 'No,' but you must not think she does not
+care." Hilaire got up, came across to where his brother sat, and laid
+a caressing hand on his shoulder. "Dear Jean, will it comfort you to
+hear me swear she means every word of that letter? It's not all over.
+You will come together in the end. Her poor blue eyes were drowned in
+tears--"
+
+"Oh, don't," Jean said brokenly. The hard line of his lips relaxed. He
+hid his face in his hands.
+
+Hilaire went out of the room.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK III.--ROME
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+Olive was alone in the compartment of the train that bore her away
+from Florence and from Jean. She had a book; it lay open on her lap,
+and she had tried to read, but the lines all ran together and the
+effort to concentrate her thoughts made her head ache. She was very
+unhappy. It seemed to her that now indeed life was emptied of all
+sweets and the taste of it was as dust and ashes in her mouth. She was
+leaving youth and joy behind; or rather, she had killed them and left
+a man to bury them. At Orvieto she nearly broke down. It would be so
+easy to get out and cross over to the other platform and there await
+the next train back to Florence. She had her hand upon the handle of
+the door when a boy with little flasks of wine in a basket came up and
+asked her to buy, and as she answered him she heard the cry of
+"_Partenza!_" It was too late; the moment had passed, and after a
+while she knew that she was glad she had not yielded. She was doing
+the right thing. What was the old French motto? "_Fais ce que doit,
+advienne que pourra._" The brave words comforted her a little. She was
+very tired, and presently she slept.
+
+She was awakened by the discordant yells of the Roman _facchini_ on
+the station platform. One of them carried her box to the office of the
+Dogana, but a large party of Americans had come by the same train and
+the officials were too busily engaged in turning over the contents of
+their innumerable Saratogas to do more than scrabble in chalk on the
+side of her shabby leather trunk and shake their heads at the
+proffered key, and soon she was in a _vettura_ clattering down the
+wide new Via Nazionale.
+
+Signora de Sanctis lived with her sister in one of the old streets in
+the lower part of the city near the Pantheon--the Via Arco della
+Ciambella. The houses there are built on the foundations of the Baths
+of Agrippa, and a brick arch, part of the great Tepidarium, remains to
+give the street its name. The poor fragment has been Christianised; a
+wayside altar sanctifies it, and a little painted shrine to the
+Madonna adorns the base. The buildings on that side are small and mean
+and overshadowed by the great yellow palace of the Spinola opposite.
+Olive's friends lived over a wine shop, but the entrance was some way
+down the street.
+
+"Fortunately, my dear," as they remarked, "though really the place is
+very quiet. People go outside the gates to get drunk."
+
+Both the women seemed glad to see her. Her room was ready and a meal
+had been prepared and the cloth laid at one end of the work-table. The
+younger sister was a dressmaker too, and the floor was strewn with
+scraps of lining and silk. A white dress lay on the sofa, carefully
+folded and covered with a sheet of tissue paper.
+
+"You look tired, Olive. Were you not happy in Florence?"
+
+The girl admitted that the Lorenzoni had not been very kind to her.
+She had left them and had been living on her savings. It had been hard
+to find other employment. "I want to work," she said. "You will let me
+help you, and I hope to get lessons."
+
+She asked to be allowed to wash the plates and dishes and put them
+away in the tiny kitchen. She was in a mood to bear anything better
+than the idleness that left room for her own sad thoughts, and she
+wished that they would let her do some sewing. "I am not good at
+needlework, but I can hem and put on buttons," she pleaded.
+
+Signora Giulia smiled at her. She was small, and she had a pale,
+dragged look and many lines about her weak eyes. "No, thank you, my
+dear. I have a girl apprentice who comes during the day, and I do the
+cutting out and designing and the embroidery myself. You must not
+tire yourself in the kitchen either. We have an old woman in to do
+_mezzo servizio_."
+
+It was nine o'clock, and the narrow streets were echoing now to the
+hoarse cries of the newsvendors: "_Tribuna!_" "_Tribuna!_"
+
+"I will go and unpack then, and to-morrow I shall find some registry
+offices and try to get English lessons."
+
+"Yes, go, _nina_, and sleep well. You look tired. You must get
+stronger while you are with us."
+
+For a long time she could not sleep. In the summer she had played with
+the thought of love, and then she had been able to close her eyes and
+feel Jean Avenel close beside her, leaning towards her, saying that
+she must not be afraid, that he would not hurt her. It had been a sort
+of game, a childish game of make-believe that seemed to hurt no one,
+not even herself. But now she was hurt indeed; the remembrance of his
+kisses ached upon her lips.
+
+When Tor di Rocca had asked her to go away with him she had felt that
+it might be worth while, that it would be pleasant to be cared for and
+loved, to eat and drink and die on the morrow, but the man himself had
+been nothing to her. A means to an end.
+
+She had been wholly a creature of blind instincts, the will to live,
+to creep out of the dark into the sunshine that is inherent in the
+animal, fighting against that other impulse, trying to root up that
+white fragile flower, watered throughout the centuries with blood and
+tears and rare and precious ointment, that thorn in some women's
+hearts, their pale ideal of inviolate purity.
+
+The spirit had warred against the flesh, and the spirit had won then
+and now. It had won, but not finally. She was dismayed to find that
+temptation was a recurrent thing. Every morning when she woke it
+returned to her. It would be so easy to write "Dearest, come to me."
+It would be so easy to make him happy. She thought little of herself
+now and much of Jean. Would he stay on with his brother or go away
+again? Had she hurt him very much? Would he forget her? Or hate her?
+
+During the day she trudged the streets of Rome and grew to know them
+well. Here, as in Florence, no one wanted to pay for learning, no one
+wanted an English girl for anything apparently. If she had been Swiss,
+and so able to speak three languages incorrectly, she might have found
+a place as nursery-governess; as it was, the people in the registry
+offices grew tired of her and she was afraid to go to them too often.
+
+There was little for her to do in the house. The old woman who came in
+did the cleaning, and they lived on bread and _ricotta_ cheese and a
+cabbage soup that was easily prepared, but sometimes she was able to
+help with the sewing, and now and then she was allowed to take the
+finished work home.
+
+"It is not fit! They will take you for an apprentice, a _sartina_."
+
+Olive laughed rather mirthlessly at that. "I am not proud," she said.
+
+"I sat up until two last night to finish the Contessa's dress. She is
+always in a hurry. If only she would pay what she owes," sighed the
+dressmaker.
+
+Olive promised to bring the money back with her, and she waited a long
+while in the stuffy passage of the Contessa's flat. There were
+imitation Abyssinian trophies on the walls, lances and daggers and
+shields of lathe and cardboard and painted paper. The husband was an
+artillery captain, and his sword stood with the umbrellas in the rack,
+the only real thing in that pretentious armoury.
+
+The Contessa came out to her presently. She was a large woman, and as
+she was angry she seemed to swell and redden and gobble as turkeys do.
+
+"Are you the _giovinetta_? You will take this dress away. It is not
+fit to put on." She held the bodice in her hand, and as she spoke she
+shook it in Olive's face. "The stitches are all awry; they are
+enormous; and half the embroidery is blue and the other half green. I
+shall make her pay for the material. The dress is ruined, and it is
+the last she shall make for me. She must pay me, and you must tell her
+so."
+
+Olive collected her scattered wits. "If the Signora Contessa would
+allow me to look," she said.
+
+The stitches were very large, and her heart sank as she examined them.
+The poor women had toiled so over this work, stooping over it,
+straining their tired eyes. "I think we can alter it to your
+satisfaction, but I must ask you to be indulgent, signora. I will
+bring it back the day after to-morrow, if that will suit you." She
+folded the bodice carefully and wrapped it in the piece of paper she
+had brought it in, fastening the four corners with pins.
+
+"The skirt goes well?"
+
+"It will do," the Contessa admitted as she turned away. "Anacleto!"
+
+A slender, dark-eyed youth emerged from the shadows at the far end of
+the passage, bringing a sound and smell of frying with him. His bare
+brown arms were floury and he wiped them on his striped cotton apron
+as he came forward to open the door. He wore a white camellia thrust
+behind one ear.
+
+"It would be convenient--Signora Manara would be glad if you could pay
+part of her account," faltered Olive.
+
+The Contessa stopped short. "I could, but I will not," she said
+emphatically. "She does her work too badly."
+
+The young servant grinned at the girl as she passed out. She was
+half-way down the stairs when he came out on to the landing and leaned
+over the banisters.
+
+"Never! Never!" he called down to her. "They never pay anyone. I am
+leaving to-morrow."
+
+The white camellia dropped at her feet. She smiled involuntarily as
+she stooped to gather up the token. "Men are rather dears."
+
+She met Ser Giulia coming down the stairs of their house. The little
+woman looked quickly at the bundle she carried as she asked why it had
+been brought back.
+
+"She wants it altered! _Dio mio!_ And I worked so hard at it. How much
+of the money has she given you?"
+
+"She has given nothing; I hope she will pay when I take the work
+back."
+
+But the other began to cry. "Perhaps the stitches are large," she
+said, sobbing. "I know my eyes are weak. No one will pay me, and I owe
+the baker more than ten lire. Soon we shall have to beg our bread in
+the streets."
+
+"Don't," Olive said hurriedly. "Don't. I have been with you more than
+a month and I have not found work yet, but I will not be a burden to
+you much longer. I shall find something to do soon and then you need
+not do so much and we shall manage better."
+
+"Oh, child, I know you do your best."
+
+"Don't cry then. I will get money somehow. Don't be afraid."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+Olive sat idly on one of the benches near the great wall in the
+Pincian gardens. She had been to an office in the Piazza di Spagna and
+had there been assured for the seventh time that there was nothing on
+the books. "If the signorina were a cook now, there are many people in
+need of cooks," the young man behind the counter had said smilingly,
+and she had thanked him and come away. What else could she do?
+
+It was getting late, and a fading light filtered through the bare
+interwoven branches of the planes. The shadows were lengthening in the
+avenues and grass-bordered paths where the seminarists had been
+walking in twos and threes among the playing children. They were gone
+now, the grave-faced young men in their black soutanes and broad
+beaver hats; all the people were gone.
+
+"O Pasquina! _Birichina!_"
+
+Olive, turning her head, saw a young woman and a child coming towards
+her. The little thing was clinging to its mother's skirts, stumbling
+at every step, whining to be taken up, and now she dropped the white
+rabbit muff and the doll she was carrying into a puddle.
+
+"O Pasquina!"
+
+The child stared open-mouthed as Olive came forward and stooped to
+pick up the fallen treasures, and though tears were running down her
+little face she made no outcry.
+
+"See, the beautiful lady helps you," the mother said hastily, and she
+sat down on the bench at Olive's side and lifted the baby on to her
+lap to comfort her.
+
+"She is tired. We have been to the Campo Marzo to buy her a fine hat
+with white feathers," she explained.
+
+Olive looked at her with interest. She was not at all pretty; her
+round snubby face was red and she had a bruise on her chin, and yet
+she was somehow attractive. Her small, twinkling blue eyes were so
+kind, and her hair was beautiful, smooth, shining, and yellow as
+straw. She wore no hat.
+
+Her name was Rosina. The signorino was always very good, and he gave
+her an afternoon off when she asked for it. On Christmas night, for
+instance, she had drunk too much wine, and she had fallen down in the
+street and hurt herself. The next day her head ached so, and when the
+signorino saw she was not well he said she might go home and sleep.
+She had been working for him six weeks. What work? She seemed
+surprised at the question.
+
+"I am a model. My face is ugly, as you see," she said in her simple,
+straightforward way; "but otherwise I am beautiful, and I can always
+get work with sculptors. The signorino is an American and he has an
+unpronounceable name. He is doing me as Eve, crouched on the ground
+and hiding my head in my arms. After the Fall, you know. Have you been
+to the Andreoni gallery? There is a statuette of me there called
+'Morning.' This is the pose."
+
+She clasped her hands together behind her head, raising her chin a
+little. Olive observed the smooth long throat, the exquisite lines of
+the shoulders and breast and hips. Pasquina slipped off her mother's
+knees.
+
+"Are you well paid?"
+
+"It depends on the artist. Some are so poor that they cannot give, and
+others will not. The schools allow fifteen soldi an hour, but the
+signorino is paying me twenty-five soldi. In the evenings I sing and
+dance at a _caffč_ near the station."
+
+Olive hesitated. "Do--do artists ever want models dressed?"
+
+Rosina looked at her quickly. "Oh, yes, when they are as pretty as you
+are. But you are well educated--one sees that--it is not fit work for
+such as you."
+
+"Never mind that," Olive said eagerly. "How does one begin being a
+model? I will try that. Will you help me?"
+
+Rosina beamed at her. "_Sicuro!_ We will go to Varini's school in the
+Corso if you like. The woman in the newspaper kiosk in the Piazza di
+Spagna knows me, and I can leave Pasquina with her. _An'iamo!_"
+
+The two girls went together down the wide, shallow steps of the
+Trinitŕ dei Monti with the child between them.
+
+Poor little Pasquina was the outward and visible sign of her mother's
+inward and hopelessly material gracelessness; she symbolised the great
+gulf fixed between smirched Roman Rosina and Jean's English rose in
+their different understanding of their own hearts' uses. Olive
+believed love to be the way to heaven; Rosina knew it, or thought she
+knew it, as a means of livelihood.
+
+The model was very evidently not only familiar with the studios. The
+cabmen on the rank in the piazza hailed her with cries of "Rosi"; she
+was greeted by beggars at the street corners, dustmen, _carabinieri_,
+crossing-sweepers, and Olive was not wholly unembarrassed. Yet Rosina
+escaped the vulgarity of some who might be called her betters as the
+world goes by being simply natural. When she was amused she laughed
+aloud, when she was tired she yawned as openly and flagrantly as any
+duchess. In manners extremes meet, and the giggle and the sneer are
+the disastrous half measures of the ill-bred, the social greasers.
+Rosina had never been sly in her life; she was ever as simply without
+shame as Eve before the Fall, and lawless because she knew no law. The
+darkness of Northern cities is tainted and cold and cannot bring forth
+such kindly things as the _rosine_--little roses--that spring up in
+the warm, sweet Roman dust.
+
+"Here is Varini's."
+
+They passed through a covered passage into a little garden overgrown
+with laurels and gnarled old pepper trees; there was a fountain with
+gold fish, and green arums were springing up about a broken faun's
+head set on a pedestal of _verd' antico_. Some men were standing
+together in the path, a pretty dark-eyed peasant girl with them. They
+all turned to stare, and the _cioccara_ put out her tongue as Olive
+went by. Rosina instantly replied in kind.
+
+"_Ohč! Fortunata! Benedetta ragazza!_ Resting as usual? Does Lorenz
+still beat you?"
+
+She described the antecedents and characteristics of Lorenz.
+
+The slower-witted country girl had a more limited vocabulary. Her eyes
+glared in the shadow of her white coif. "Ah," she gasped. "_Brutta
+bestia!_" and she turned her back.
+
+The men laughed, and Rosina laughed with them as she knocked on a
+green painted door in the wall. It was opened by a burly, bearded
+man, tweed-clad, and swathed in a stained painting apron.
+
+"Oh, _Professore_, here is a friend of mine who wants work."
+
+"Come in," he said shortly, and they followed him into a large untidy
+studio. A Pompeian fruit-seller in a black frame, a study for a
+Judgment of Paris on a draped easel, and on another easel the portrait
+of an old lady just begun. There were stacks of canvases on the floor
+and on all the chairs.
+
+"Turn to the light," the artist said brusquely; and then, as Olive
+obeyed him, "Don't be frightened. You are new, I see. You are so pink
+and white that I thought you were painted. You are not Italian?"
+
+"No."
+
+"What, then?"
+
+She was silent.
+
+He smiled. "Ah, well, it does not matter. You can come to the pavilion
+on Monday at five and sit to the evening class for a week. You
+understand? Wait a minute." He went to the door and called one of the
+young men in from the garden.
+
+"Here is a new model, Mario. I have engaged her for the evening class.
+What do you think of her?"
+
+"_Carina assai_," approved Mario. He was a round-faced, snub-nosed
+youth with clever brown eyes set very far apart, and a humorous mouth.
+"_Carina assai!_" he repeated.
+
+"Fifteen soldi the hour, from five to seven-thirty," said the
+professor. "Come a little before the time on Monday; the porter will
+show you what costume you must wear and I shall be there to pose you."
+
+"Now I shall take you to M'sieur Michelin," Rosina said when they had
+left Varini's. "He is looking for a type, and perhaps you will please
+him. He is _strano_, but good always, and he pays well."
+
+"It is not tiring you?"
+
+"_Ma che!_ I must see that you begin well and with the right people.
+Some painters are _canaglia_. Ah, I know that," the girl said with a
+little sigh and a shrug of her shoulders.
+
+They went by way of the Via Babuino across the Piazza di Spagna, and
+up the little hill past the convent of English nuns to the Villa
+Medici. Rosina rang the gate-bell, and the old braided Cerberus
+admitted them grumblingly. "You are late. But if it is M'sieur
+Camille--"
+
+Camille Michelin, bright particular star of the French Prix de Rome
+constellation, lived and worked in one of the more secluded
+garden-studios of the villa; it was deep set in the ilex wood, and the
+girls came to it by a narrow winding path, box-edged, and strewn with
+dead leaves. A light shone in one of the upper windows; the great man
+was there and he came down the creaking wooden stairs himself to open
+the door.
+
+"Who is it? Rosina? I have put away the Anthony canvas for a month
+and I will let you know when I want you again."
+
+"But, signorino, I have brought you a type."
+
+"What!" he said eagerly, in his execrable Italian. "Fresh, sweet,
+clean?"
+
+"_Sicuro._"
+
+"I do not believe you. You are lying."
+
+Camille was picturesque from the crown of his flaxen head to the soles
+of his brown boots; his pallor was interesting, his blue eyes
+remarkable; he habitually wore rust-coloured velveteen; he smoked
+cigarettes incessantly. All men who knew and loved his work saw in him
+a decadent creature of extraordinary charm; and yet, in spite of his
+"Aholibah," his "Salome," and his horribly beautiful, unfinished study
+of Fulvia piercing the tongue of Cicero, in spite of his
+Byron-cum-Baudelaire after Velasquez and Vandyke exterior he always
+managed to be quite boyishly simple and sincere.
+
+"Where is she?" Then, as his eyes met Olive's, he cried, "Not you,
+mademoiselle?" His surprise was as manifest as his pleasure. "My
+friends have sworn that I could never paint a wholesome picture. Now I
+will show them. When can you come?"
+
+"Monday morning."
+
+"Do not fail me," he implored. "Such harpies have been here to show
+themselves to me; fat, brown, loose-lipped things with purple-shadowed
+eyes. But you are perfect; divine bread-and-butter. They think they are
+clean because they have washed in soap and water, but it is the
+stainless soul I want. It must shine through my canvas as it does
+through Angelico's."
+
+"I hope I shall please you," faltered the girl. "I--I only pose
+draped."
+
+He looked at her quickly. "Very well," he said, "I will remember. It
+is your head I want. You are not Roman; have you sat to any other man
+here?"
+
+"No. I am going to Varini's in the evenings next week."
+
+"Ah! Well, don't let anyone else get hold of you. Gontrand will be
+trying to snap you up. He is so tired of the _cioccare_. What shall I
+call you?"
+
+"Nothing. I have no name."
+
+"I shall give you one. You shall be called child. Come at nine and you
+will find the door open." He fumbled in his pockets for some silver.
+"Here, Rosina, this is for the little one."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+The virtue that bruises not only the heel of the Evil One but the
+heart of the beloved is never its own reward. The thought of Jean's
+aching loneliness oppressed Olive far more than her own. She believed
+that she had done right in leaving him, but no consciousness of her
+own rectitude sustained her, and she was pitifully far from any sense
+of self-satisfaction. Her head hung dejectedly in the cold light of
+its aureole. Sometimes she hated herself for being one of the dull
+ninety-and-nine who never stray and who need no forgiveness, and yet
+she clung to her dear ideal of love thorn-crowned, white, and clean.
+
+She had hoped to be able to help her friends, but that hope had faded,
+and she had been very near despair. There was something pathetic now
+in her intense joy at the thought of earning a few pence. She lied to
+the kind women at home because she knew they would not understand.
+They might believe the way to the Villa Medici to be the primrose path
+that leads to everlasting fire--they probably would if they had ever
+heard of Camille. She told them she had found lessons, and the wolf
+seemed to skulk growlingly away from the door as she uttered the
+words.
+
+"You need not be afraid of the baker now," she told Ser Giulia. "He
+shall be paid at the end of the week."
+
+Her waking on the Monday morning was the happiest she had known since
+she left Florence. She was to help to make beautiful things. Her part
+would be passive; but they also serve who only stand and wait. She was
+not of those who see degradation in the lesser forms of labour. Each
+worker is needed to make the perfect whole. The men who wrought the
+gold knots and knops of the sanctuary, who wove the veil for the Holy
+of Holies, were called great, but the hewers of wood and carriers of
+water were temple builders too, even though their part was but to
+raise up scaffoldings that must come down again, or to mix the mortar
+that is unseen though it should weld the whole. Men might pass these
+toilers by in silence, but God would surely praise them.
+
+Praxiteles moulded a goddess in clay, and we still acclaim him after
+the lapse of some two thousand years. What of the woman who wearied
+and ached that his eyes might not fail to learn the least sweet curve
+of her? What of the patient craftsmen who hewed out the block of
+marble, whose eyes were inflamed, whose lungs were scarred by the
+white dust of it? They suffered for beauty's sake--not, as some might
+say, because they must eat and live. Even slaves might get bread by
+easier ways. But, very simply for beauty's sake.
+
+Olive might have soon learnt how vile such service may be in the
+studios of any of the _canaglia_ poor Rosina knew, but Camille, that
+sheep in wolf's clothing, was safe enough. What there was in him of
+perversity, of brute force, he expended in the portrayal of his subtly
+beautiful furies. His art was feverishly decadent, and those who judge
+a man by his work might suppose him to be a monster of iniquity. He
+was, in fact, an extremely clever and rather worldly-wise boy who
+loved violets and stone-pines and moonlight with poetical fervour, who
+preferred milk to champagne, and saunterings in green fields to
+gambling on green cloth.
+
+That February morning was cloudless, and Rome on her seven hills was
+flooded in sunshine. The birds were singing in the ilex wood as Olive
+passed through, and Camille was singing too in his _atelier_:
+
+    "'_Derričre chez mon pčre
+      Vive la rose.'
+    Il y a un oranger
+      Vive ci, vive lŕ!
+    Il y a un oranger,
+      Vive la rose et le lilas!_"
+
+"I was afraid you would be late."
+
+"Why?" she asked, smiling, as she came to him across the great room.
+
+"Women always are. But you are not a woman; you are an angel."
+
+He looked at her closely. The strong north light showed her smooth
+skin flawless.
+
+"The white and rose is charming," he said. "And I adore freckles. But
+your eyes are too deep; one can see that you have suffered. There is
+too much in them for the innocent baa-lamb picture I must paint."
+
+Her face fell. "I shan't do then?"
+
+"Dear child, you will," he reassured her. "I shall paint your lashes
+and not your eyes. Your lashes and a curve of pink cheek. Now go
+behind that screen and put on the sprigged cotton frock you will find
+there, with a muslin fichu and a mob cap. I have a basket of wools
+here and a piece of tapestry. The sort of woman I have never painted
+is always doing needlework."
+
+Camille spent half the morning in the arrangement of the accessories
+that were, as he said, to suggest virtuous domesticity; then he
+settled the folds of the girl's skirt, the turn of her head, her
+hands. At last, when he was satisfied, he went to his easel and began
+to work. Olive had never before realised how hard it is to keep quite
+still. The muscles of her neck ached and her face seemed to grow stiff
+and set; she felt her hands quivering.
+
+Hours seemed to pass before his voice broke the silence. "I have
+drawn it in," he announced. "You can rest now. Come down and see some
+of my pictures."
+
+He showed her his "Salome," a Hebrew mćnad, whose scarlet, parted lips
+ached for the desert dreamer's death; "Lucrezia Borgia," slow-smiling,
+crowned with golden hair; and a rough charcoal study for Queen
+Eleanor.
+
+"I seem to see you as Henry's Rosamund," he said. "I wonder--the
+haunting shadow of coming sorrow in blue eyes. You have suffered."
+
+"I am hungry," she answered.
+
+He looked at his watch. "Forgive me! It is past noon. Run away, child,
+and come back at two."
+
+The day seemed very long in spite of Camille's easy kindness, and the
+girl shrank from the subsequent sitting at Varini's.
+
+"Why do you pose for those wretched boys?" grumbled the Prix de Rome
+man. "After this week you must come to me only. I must paint a
+Rosamund."
+
+At sunset she hurried down the hill to the Corso, and came by way of
+the corridor and garden to the pavilion. The porter took her into a
+dingy little lumber-filled passage and left her there. A soiled pink
+satin frock was laid ready for her on a broken chair. As she put it on
+she heard a babel of voices in the class-room beyond, and she felt
+something like stage-fright as she fumbled at the hooks and eyes; but
+a clock struck the hour presently, and she went in then and climbed on
+to the throne. At first she saw nothing, but after a while she was
+aware of a group of men who stood near the door regarding her.
+
+"_Carina._"
+
+"Yes, a fine colour, but too thin."
+
+When the professor came in he made her sit in a carved chair, and gave
+her a fan to hold. The men moved about, choosing their places, and
+were silent until he left them with a gruff "_Felice notte_." Olive
+noticed the lad who had been called in to Varini's studio to see her;
+the boy who sat next him had a round, impudent face, and when
+presently she yawned he smiled at her.
+
+"I will ask questions to keep you awake, but you must answer truly.
+Have you taken a fancy to anyone here?"
+
+"I don't dislike you or Mario."
+
+They rose simultaneously and bowed. "We are honoured. But why? Bembi
+here is a fine figure of a man."
+
+"Enough!" growled Bembi. "You talk too much."
+
+During the rest Olive went to look at the boys' work; it was
+brilliantly impressionistic. The younger had evidently founded himself
+on Mario, and Mario was, perhaps, a genius.
+
+They came and sat down, one on either side of her.
+
+"Why are you pretending to be a model?" whispered Mario. "We can see
+you are not. Are you hiding from someone?"
+
+She shook her head. "I am earning my bread," she answered. "Be kind to
+me."
+
+"We will." He patted her bare shoulder with the air of a grandfather,
+but his brown eyes sparkled.
+
+"Why are some of the men so old, and why is some of the work so--"
+
+"Bad." Mario squinted at Bembi's black, smudged drawing. "I will tell
+you. That bald man in the corner is seventy-two; painting is his
+amusement, and he loves models. He wants to marry Fortunata, but she
+won't have him because he is toothless. Once, twenty-five years ago,
+he sold a watercolour for ten lire and he has never forgotten it."
+
+"Really because he is toothless?"
+
+"Oh, he is mad too, and she is afraid of him. Cesare and I are the
+only ones here who will make you look human. It is a pity, as you are
+really _carina_."
+
+He patted her shoulder again and pinched her ear, and Cesare passed
+his arm about her waist. She struggled to free herself.
+
+"Let her go!" cried the other men, and, flushed and dishevelled, she
+took refuge on the throne. The pose was resumed, and the room settled
+down to work again.
+
+She kept very still, but after a while the tears that filled her eyes
+overflowed, ran down her cheeks, and dripped upon the hand that held
+the fan.
+
+"I am sorry," cried Mario.
+
+"And I."
+
+"Forgive me."
+
+"And me."
+
+"I was a _mascalzone_!"
+
+"And I."
+
+"Forgive them for our sakes," growled Bembi, "or they will cackle all
+night."
+
+Olive laughed a little in spite of herself, but she was very tired and
+they had hurt her. The marks of Cesare's fingers showed red still on
+her wrist, and the lace of the short sleeve was torn.
+
+Mario clattered out of the room presently, and came back with a glass
+of water for her. "I am really sorry," he whispered as he gave it. "Do
+stop crying."
+
+After all they had not meant any harm. She was a little comforted, and
+the expressed contrition helped her.
+
+"I shall be better soon," she said gently.
+
+When she got home to the apartment in Via Arco della Ciambella there
+were lies to be told about the lessons, the pupils, the hours. The
+fine edge of her exaltation was already blunted, and she sighed at the
+thought of her morning dreams; sighed and was glad; the first steps
+had not cost much after all, and she had earned five lire and fifteen
+soldi.
+
+The lamp was lit in the little sitting-room, and Ser Giulia was
+there, cutting out a skirt on the table very carefully, in a tense
+silence that was broken only by the click of the scissors and the
+rustle of silk.
+
+"I have lost confidence in myself," she said as she fastened the
+shining lengths together with pins. "This _is_ the right side of the
+material, isn't it, my dear? I can't see."
+
+"Yes, this is right. Let me stitch the seams for you. Where is Signora
+Aurelia?"
+
+"She has gone to bed. Her head ached. She--she does not complain, but
+I think she needs more sun and air than she can get here."
+
+Olive looked at her quickly. "You ought to go away and rest, both of
+you."
+
+"Our brother in Como would be glad to have us with him, but it is
+impossible at present. I paid our rent a few days ago--three months in
+advance."
+
+"I will go to the house-agent in the Piazza di Spagna to-morrow. It
+should not be difficult to get a tenant, and at the end of the time
+the furniture could be warehoused, or you could sell it."
+
+Ser Giulia hesitated. "What would you do then, _figliuola mia_?"
+
+"Oh, I can take care of myself," the girl said easily.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+After the first week Olive went only to Camille's _atelier_. He was
+working hard at his "_étude blanche_," but no one had been allowed to
+see it, except, of course, M'sieur le Directeur.
+
+"I almost wish I had asked you to come always heavily veiled. The
+other men are all mad about you, and Gontrand tells me he wants you to
+give him sittings for the head of an oread, but he cannot have you.
+You are mine."
+
+"Is he a lean, black-bearded man?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"He spoke to me the other day as I was coming through the garden, and
+asked me if you were really painting a '_jeune fille_' picture. I said
+you were painting a picture, and he would probably see it when you had
+your show in April."
+
+Camille laughed. "Good child! We must keep up the mystery." He flung
+down his brushes. "I cannot work any more to-day. Will you come with
+me for a drive into the Campagna?"
+
+She hesitated. "I am not sure--"
+
+"Come as my little brother." He took off his linen painting sleeves,
+and began to dabble his fingers in a pan of turpentine. "My little
+brother! Do you know that the Directeur thinks you are charming, and
+he wonders that I do not love you."
+
+"I am glad you do not," she said, colouring. "If you did--"
+
+He was lighting a cigarette. "If I did?" The little momentary flame of
+the match was reflected in his blue eyes.
+
+"I should go away and not come back again."
+
+"Well, I do not," he said heartily. "I care for you as St Francis did
+for his pet sparrow. So now put your hat on and I will go down and get
+a _vettura_ with a good horse."
+
+He was a creature of moods, and so young in many ways that he appealed
+to the girl as Astorre had done, by the queer, pathetic little flaws
+in his manhood. Some days he worked incessantly from early morning
+until the light failed at his picture, but there were times when he
+seemed unable even to look at it. He made several studies in charcoal
+for "Rosamund."
+
+"It is an inspiration," he said excitedly more than once. "The rose of
+the world that can only be reached by love--or hate--holding the
+clue."
+
+He had promised an American who had bought a picture of his the year
+before that he would do some work for him in Venice in the spring.
+"Very rash of me," he said fractiously. "The 'Jeune Fille' would have
+been quite enough for me to show, and it is dreadful to have to leave
+it unfinished now." And when Gontrand tried to persuade him to let him
+have Olive during his absence he was, as the girl phrased it, quite
+cross. "I have seen enough of that. Last year in the Salon St
+Elizabeth of Hungary, and Clytemnestra, and Malesherbe's _vivandičre_
+were one and the same woman. Besides, oreads are nearly related to
+Bacchantes, Gontrand, and I am not going to allow my little
+sewing-girl to be mixed up with people of that sort."
+
+He made Olive promise not to sit for any of the other men at the Villa
+Medici.
+
+"I shall work at Varini's in the evenings," she said. "And one of the
+men there wants me to come to his studio in the Via Margutta three
+mornings a week. He is a Baron von something."
+
+The Frenchman's face lightened. "Oh, that German! I know him. I saw a
+landscape of his once. It looked as if several tubes of paint had got
+together and burst. What else will you do?"
+
+"Rome, if you will lend me your Bćdeker," she answered. "I shall begin
+with A and work my way through Beatrice Cenci and the Borgo Nuovo to
+the Corsini Gallery and the Corso. Some of the letters may be rather
+dull. I am so glad Apollo comes now."
+
+He laughed. "M for Michelin. You will be sure to admire me when my
+turn comes."
+
+Olive was living alone now in a tall old house in Ripetta. The two
+kind women who had been her friends had left Rome and gone to stay
+with their brother at Como. It was evidently the best thing they could
+do, and the girl had assured them that she was quite well able to look
+after herself, but they had been only half convinced by her reasoning.
+She was English and she had done it before. "That is nothing," Ser
+Giulia said. "You may catch a ball once, and the second time it may
+slip through your fingers. And sometimes Life is like the importunate
+widow and goes on asking until one gives what one should not." She
+helped her to find a room, and eked out the furniture from her own
+little store. "Another saucepan, and a kettle, and a blanket. And if
+lessons fail you must come to us, _figliuola mia_. My brother's house
+is large."
+
+The girl had answered her with a kiss, but though she loved them she
+was not altogether sorry to see them go. She could never tell them how
+she had earned the lire that paid the baker's bill. The truth would
+hurt them, and she would not give them a moment's pain if she could
+avoid it, but she was not good at lying. Even the very little white
+ones stuck in her throat, and she was relieved to be no longer under
+the necessity of uttering them.
+
+The room she had taken was on the sixth floor, and from the one
+narrow window she could look across the yellow swirl of Tiber towards
+Monte Mario. She had set up her household gods. The plaster bust of
+Dante, and her books, on the rickety wooden table by her bedside, and,
+such as it was, this place was home.
+
+Camille went by a night train, and Olive began to "see Rome" on the
+following morning. She took the tram to the Piazza Venezia and walked
+from thence to the church of Santa Maria Ara Coeli.
+
+The flight of steps to the west door is very long, and she climbed
+slowly, stopping once or twice to take breath and look back at the
+crowded roofs and many church domes of Rome, and at the green heights
+of the Janiculan hill beyond, with the bronze figure of Garibaldi on
+his horse, dominant, and very clear against the sky.
+
+The cripple at the door lifted the heavy leather curtain for her and
+she put a soldo into his outstretched hand as she went in. The church
+seemed very still, very quiet, after the clamour of the streets. The
+acrid scent of incense was as the breath of spent prayer. Little
+yellow flames flickered in the shrine lamps before each altar, but it
+was early yet and for the moment no mass was being said. An old,
+white-haired monk was sweeping the worn pavement. He was swathed in a
+blue linen apron, and his rusty brown frock was tucked up about his
+ankles. A lean black cat followed him, mewing, and now and then he
+stopped his work to stroke it. There was a great stack of chairs by
+the door, and a few were scattered about the aisles and occupied by
+stray worshippers, women with handkerchiefs tied over their heads in
+deference to St Paul's expressed wishes, two or three old men, and
+some peasants with their market baskets. A be-ribboned nurse carrying
+a baby had just come in to see the Sacro Bambino, and Olive followed
+them into the sacristy and saw the child laid down before the
+bedizened, red-cheeked wooden doll in the glass case. As they passed
+out again the monk who was in attendance gave Olive a coloured card
+with a prayer printed on the back. She heard him asking what was the
+matter with the little one. The woman lifted the lace veil from the
+tiny face and showed him the sightless eyes. He crossed himself.
+"_Poveretto! Dio vi benedica!_"
+
+As Olive left the sacristy a tall man came across the aisle towards
+her. It was Prince Tor di Rocca.
+
+"This is a great pleasure," he said. "But not to you, I am afraid. You
+are not glad to see me."
+
+"I am surprised. I--do you often come into churches?"
+
+He laughed. "I sometimes follow women in. I saw you coming up the
+steps just now. You are right in supposing that I am not devout. I
+want to speak to you. Shall we go out?"
+
+She looked for a way of escape but saw none.
+
+"If--very well," she said rather helplessly.
+
+The hunchback woman at the south door watched them expectantly as they
+came towards her, and she brightened as she saw the man's hand go to
+his pocket. He threw her a piece of silver as they passed out. He was
+in a good humour, his fine lips smiling, a glinting zest in his
+insolent eyes. He thought he understood women, and he had in fact made
+a one-sided study of the sex. He had seen their ways of loving, he had
+listened to the beating of their hearts; but of their endurance, their
+long patience, their daily life he knew nothing. He was like a man who
+often wears a bunch of violets in his coat until they fade, and yet
+has never seen, or cared to see them, growing sparsely, small and
+sweet, half hidden in leaves on a mossy bank by the stream.
+
+Women amused him. He was seldom much moved by them, and he pursued
+them without haste or flurry, treading delicately like Agag of old. He
+had little intrigues everywhere, in Florence, in Naples, in Rome.
+Young married women, girls walking demurely with their mothers. He
+liked to know that it was he who brought the colour to their cheeks
+and that their eyes sought him among the crowd of men standing outside
+Aragno's in the Corso or on the steps of the club in the Via
+Tornabuoni. Very often the affair would be one of the eyes only, but
+sometimes it went farther. Filippo's procedure varied. Sometimes he
+put advertisements in the personal column of the Popolo Romano, and
+sometimes he wrote notes. It was always very interesting while it
+lasted. Occasionally affairs overlapped, as when an appeal to F. to
+meet Norina once more in the Borghese appeared in print above F.'s
+request that the signorina in the pink hat would write to him at the
+Poste Restante.
+
+Olive had nearly yielded to him in Florence, and then she had run
+away, she had sought safety in flight. Evidently then his battle had
+been nearly won. But she had reassembled her forces, and he saw that
+it would be all to fight over again, and that the issue was doubtful.
+
+As they came into the little square piazza of the Capitol she turned
+to him. "What have you to say? I--I am in a hurry."
+
+"I am sorry for that, but if you are going anywhere I can walk with
+you, or we can take a _vettura_ and drive together."
+
+She looked past him at the green shining figure of Marcus Aurelius on
+his horse riding between her and the sun, and said nothing.
+
+"I shall enjoy being with you even if you are inclined to be silent.
+You are so good to look at."
+
+His brazen stare gave point to his words. Her face was no longer
+childish in its charm. It had lost the first roundness of youth, but
+had gained in expression. A soul seemed to be shining through the veil
+of flesh--white and rose-red flesh, divinely gilt with freckles--and
+fluttering in the troubled depths of her blue eyes. The nun-like
+simplicity of her grey dress pleased him: it did not detract from her;
+it left the eyes free to return to her face, to dwell upon her lips.
+
+"Something has happened," he said. "There is another man. Are you
+married?"
+
+"No."
+
+"I only came to Rome yesterday. Strange that we should meet so soon.
+It seems that there is a Destiny that shapes our ends after all."
+
+"You do not believe in free will?"
+
+He shrugged his shoulders. "I do not think about such things."
+
+"Well," she said impatiently. "Is that all you have to say? I suppose
+the Marchesa and Mamie are here too."
+
+He hesitated and seemed to lose some of his assurance. "No, we
+quarrelled. The girl is insupportable. She is engaged now to a lord of
+sorts, an Englishman, and they are still in Cairo."
+
+"So you have lost her too."
+
+"It was your fault that Edna gave me up. You owe me something for
+that. And you behaved badly to me again--afterwards."
+
+"I did not."
+
+He laughed enjoyingly. "I trusted you and you took advantage of a
+truce to run away."
+
+She moved away from him, but he followed her and kept at her side.
+
+"I never asked you to trust me. I asked you to come the next day for
+an answer. You came and you had it."
+
+"I came and I had it," he repeated. "Did the old woman give you my
+message?"
+
+"That we should meet again?"
+
+"That was not all. I said you would come to me one day sooner or
+later."
+
+They had paused at the top of the steps that lead down from the
+Capitol into the streets and are guarded by the gigantic figures of
+Castor and Pollux, great masses of discoloured marble set on pedestals
+on either side. It was twelve o'clock, and a black stream of hungry,
+desk-weary men poured out of the Capitoline offices. Many turned to
+look at the English girl as they hurried by, and one passing close to
+her muttered "bella" in her ear. She drew back as though she had been
+stung. Filippo laughed again.
+
+"I only ask to be let alone," she said. "Can't you understand that you
+remind me of things I want to forget. I am ashamed, oh, can't you
+understand!"
+
+She left him and went to stand on the outskirts of the crowd that had
+collected in front of the cage in which the wolves are kept. Evidently
+she hoped that he would go on, but he meant to disappoint her, and
+when she went down the steps he was close beside her.
+
+"Why are you so unkind to me?" he said, and as they crossed the road
+he held her arm.
+
+She wrenched herself away, went up to the _carabiniere_, who stood at
+the corner, and spoke to him. The man smiled tolerantly as he glanced
+from her to Filippo. "Signorina, I cannot help you."
+
+She passed on down the street, knowing that she was being followed,
+crossed the Corso Vittorio Emanuele and took a tram in the Piazza
+della Minerva. Tor di Rocca got in too and sat down opposite to her.
+The conductor turned to him first, and when she proffered her four
+soldi she found that he had paid for both. Her hand shook as she put
+the money back in her purse, and her colour rose. Filippo, quite at
+his ease, leisurely, openly observant of her, whistled "Lucia" softly
+to himself. Roses, roses all the way, and all for him, he thought
+amusedly. And yet she bore the ordeal well, betraying no restlessness,
+keeping her eyes unswervingly fixed on the two lions of the
+advertisement of Chinina Migone pasted on the glass over his head. At
+the Ripetta bridge she got out. He followed, saw her go into a house
+farther down the street, and paused on the threshold to take the
+number before he went up the stairs after her. She heard him coming.
+He turned the handle of the door, but she had locked it and it held
+fast. He knocked once and called to her. Evidently he was not sure of
+her being within. There was another room on the same landing, and
+after a while he tried that.
+
+"Are you in there? _Carissima_, you are wasting time. To-day or
+to-morrow, sooner or later. Why not to-day, and soon?"
+
+A silence ensued. The girl had taken off her hat and thrown it down
+upon the table. She stood very still in the middle of the room
+listening, waiting for him to go away again. Her breath came quickly,
+and little pearls of sweat broke out upon her forehead. His
+persistence frightened her.
+
+He waited for an answer, and receiving none, added, "Well, I will come
+again," and so went away.
+
+She stayed in until it was time to go to Varini's. It was not far, but
+she was flushed and panting with the haste that she had made as she
+put on the faded blue silk dress that had been laid out ready for her
+on the one broken chair in the dressing-room. Rosina came in to her
+presently from the professor's studio. She wore a man's tweed coat and
+a striped blanket wrapped about her, and she was smoking a cigarette.
+
+"So you have come back to work here. Your signorino at the Villa
+Medici is away?"
+
+"Only for a few days. He will not be gone long. The picture is not
+finished. How is Pasquina?"
+
+Rosina had come over to her and was fastening the hooks of her bodice.
+"She is very well. How pretty you are." She rearranged the laces at
+the girl's breast and caught up a torn piece of the silk with a pin.
+"That is better. Have you been running? You seem hot."
+
+"Oh, Rosina, I have been frightened. A man followed me. I shall be
+afraid to go home to-night."
+
+The yellow-haired Trasteverina looked at her shrewdly. "He knows where
+you live? Have you only seen him once?"
+
+"He--he came and tried my door. I am afraid of him."
+
+Rosina nodded. "_Si capisce!_ I will take care of you. I have met so
+many _mascalzoni_ in twenty years that I have grown used to them. I
+will come home with you, and if any man so much as looks at us I will
+scratch his eyes out."
+
+Through the thin partition wall they heard the professor calling for
+his model. "I must go," she said hurriedly, but as she passed out
+Olive caught at a fold of the enveloping blanket.
+
+"Come here, I want you." She flung her arms about the other girl's
+neck and kissed her. "You are good! You are good!"
+
+She went into the class room and climbed the throne as the men came
+clattering in to take their places. The professor posed her.
+
+"So you have come back to us. Do not let them spoil you at the Villa
+Medici--your head a little higher--so."
+
+The first drawing in of the figure is not a thing to be taken lightly,
+and the silence was seldom broken at Varini's on Monday evenings. The
+two boys, however, found it hard to repress the natural loquacity of
+their extreme youth.
+
+"_Al lavoro_, Mario! What are you whispering about? Cesare, _zitto_!"
+Bembi stared at them. "Their chins are disappearing," he said. "See
+their collars. Every day an inch higher. _Dio mio!_ Is that the way to
+please women? I wear a flannel shirt and my neck is as bare as a
+plucked chicken, and yet I--" he stopped short.
+
+Mario laughed. "Women are strange," he admitted.
+
+"Mad!" cried Cesare, and then as Bembi still smirked ineffably he
+appealed to Olive. "Do you admire fowls wrapped in flannel or _in
+arrosto_?"
+
+When she came out she found Rosina waiting for her in the courtyard,
+a grey shadow with smooth fair hair shining in the moonlight. "The
+professor let me go at eight so I dressed and came out here," she
+explained. "The dressing-room is full of dust and spider's webs. I
+told the porter the other day that he ought to sweep it, but he only
+laughed at me and said Domeniddio made spiders long before he took a
+rib out of Adam's side to whip a naughty world."
+
+"Who is the man?" she asked presently as they walked along together.
+"Do I know him?"
+
+"I do not think so. He is not an artist."
+
+Rosina laid a hand upon her arm. "Is that he?" she said.
+
+They had passed through one of the narrow streets that lead from the
+Corso towards the river and were come into the Ripetta.
+
+A tall man was walking slowly along on the other side of the road. He
+did not seem to have noticed the two girls, and yet as he stopped to
+light a cigarette he was looking towards them. A tram came clanging
+up, the overhead wires emitting strange noises peculiar to themselves,
+the gong ringing sharply. Olive glanced up at the red painted triangle
+fixed to the lamp-post at the corner. "It will stop here. Quick! while
+it is between us. Perhaps he has not seen--"
+
+They ran to her door and up the stairs together. "It has only just
+gone on," cried Rosina. "Have you got your key?"
+
+She stayed on the landing while Olive went into the room and lit her
+candle. There was no sound in the house at all, no step upon the
+stair. As she peered down over the banisters into the darkness below
+she listened intently. The rustling of her skirt sounded loud in the
+stillness, but there was nothing else.
+
+"He did not see us," she said. "I shall go now. Lock your door.
+_Felice notte, piccina._"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+Camille, loitering on the terrace of the old garden of the Villa
+Medici, was quick to hear the creaking of the iron gate upon its
+hinges. His pale face brightened as he threw away his cigarette and he
+went down the path between the ilex trees to meet his model.
+
+"You have come. Oh, I seem to have been years away."
+
+They went up the hill together. It was early yet, and the city was
+veiled in fine mist through which the river gleamed here and there
+with a sharpness of steel. The dome of St Peter's was still dark
+against the greenish pallor of the morning sky.
+
+"I am glad to be in Rome again. Venice is beautiful, but it does not
+inspire me. It has no associations for me. What do I care for the
+Doges, or for Titian's fat, golden-haired women with their sore
+eyes--Caterina Cornaro and the rest. Rome is a crystal in which I seem
+to see faces of dear women, women who lived and loved and saw the sun
+set behind that rampart of low hills--Virginia, the Greek slave Acte,
+Agnes, Cecilia, who sang as she lay dying in her house over there in
+the Trasteverine quarter. Ah, I shall go away and have the nostalgia
+of Rome to the end of my life." He paused to light another cigarette.
+"Come and look at the picture. I have not dared to see it again myself
+since I came back last night."
+
+The door of his _atelier_ was open; he clattered up the steep wooden
+stairs and she followed him. The canvas was set up on an easel facing
+the great north light. Camille went up to it and then backed away.
+
+"Well?"
+
+He was smiling. "It is good," he said. "I shall work on it to-day and
+to-morrow. Get ready now while I prepare my palette."
+
+He looked at her critically as she took her place. The change in her
+was indefinable, but he was aware of it. She seemed to be listening.
+
+"Do you feel a draught from the door?" he asked presently.
+
+"No, but I should like it shut."
+
+"Nerves. You need a tonic and probably a change of air and scene.
+There is nothing the matter?"
+
+She shook her head. Camille was kind, but he could not help her. He
+could not make the earth open and swallow Tor di Rocca, and sometimes
+she felt that nothing less than that would satisfy her, and that such
+a summary ending would contribute greatly to her peace of mind.
+
+She had not seen the Prince for two days and she was beginning to
+hope that he had gone away, but she was not yet able to feel free of
+him. Rosina had come home with her every night from Varini's. Once he
+had followed them, and twice he had come up the stairs and knocked at
+the door. There had been hours when she had been safe from him, but
+she had not known them, and the strain, the constant pricking fear of
+him, was telling upon her. Every day youth and strength and hope
+seemed to be slipping away and leaving her less able to do and to
+endure. She dared not look forward, as Camille did, to the end of
+life. He would die in his bed, full of years and honour, a great
+artist, a master, the president of many societies, but she--
+
+Sometimes, as she stood facing the semi-circle of men at Varini's, and
+listened to the busy scratching of charcoal on paper, to Bembi's heavy
+breathing, and to the ticking of the clock, she wondered if she had
+done wrong in taking this way of bread earning. Certainly there could
+be no turning back. The step, once taken, was irrevocable. If artists
+employed her she would go on, but she could get no other work if this
+failed. If this failed there must be another struggle between flesh
+and spirit, and this time it would be decisive--one or other must
+prevail. Though she dreaded it she knew it was inevitable.
+
+Meanwhile Camille stood in need of her ministrations. He had arranged
+to show his work on the fifteenth of April, and now he seemed to
+regard that date as thrice accursed. Often when she came in the
+morning she would find him prowling restlessly to and fro, or sitting
+with his head in his hands staring gloomily at the parquet flooring
+and sighing like a furnace.
+
+"I hate having to invite people who do not know anything, who cannot
+tell an etching from an oil," he said irritably. "I cannot suffer
+their ridiculous comments gladly. I would rather have six teeth pulled
+out than hear my Aholibah called pretty. _Pretty!_"
+
+"They cannot say anything wrong about the picture of me," she said.
+"It is splendid. M'sieur le Directeur says so, and I am sure it is.
+And your Venice sketches look so well on the screen."
+
+"You must be there," he moaned. "If you are not there I shall burst
+into tears and run away." Then he laughed. "I am always like this. You
+should see me in Paris on the eve of the opening of the Salon. A
+pitiable wreck! I had no angel to console me there."
+
+He kissed her hands with unusual fervour.
+
+The girl had not really meant to come at first, but she yielded to his
+persuasions. "I will look after the food and drink then," she said,
+and she spent herself on the decoration of the tea-table. They went to
+Aragno's together in the morning to get cakes and bonbons.
+
+"What flowers?"
+
+She chose mimosa, and he bought a great mass of the fragrant golden
+boughs, and a bunch of violets for her.
+
+Camille knew a good many people in Rome, and all those he had asked
+came. The Prix de Rome men were the first arrivals. They came in a
+body, and on the stroke of the hour named on the invitation cards.
+Camille watched their faces eagerly as they crowded in and came to a
+stand before his picture; they knew, and if they approved he cared
+little for the verdict of all Rome.
+
+Gontrand was the first to break rather a long silence.
+
+"Delicious!" he cried. "It is a triumph."
+
+Camille flushed with pleasure as the others echoed him.
+
+"The scheme of whites," "The fine quality," "So pure."
+
+One after the other they went across the room to talk to the model,
+who stood by the tea-table waiting to serve them.
+
+"You are wonderful, mademoiselle. If only you would sit for me I might
+hope to achieve something too."
+
+"When M'sieur Michelin has done with me," she said. "You like the
+picture?"
+
+"It is adorable--as you are."
+
+Other people were coming now. Camille stayed by the door to receive
+them while his friend Gontrand showed the drawings in the portfolio,
+explained the Campagna sketches, and handed plates of cake and sweets.
+When Olive made fresh tea he brought her more sliced lemons from the
+lumber room, where Rosina was washing the cups.
+
+"I am useful but not disinterested. Persuade Camille to let you sit
+for me."
+
+"But you will not be here in the summer," she said wistfully.
+
+"Coffee, madame? These cakes are not very sweet. Yes, I was M'sieur
+Michelin's model. Yes, it is a beautiful picture."
+
+The crowd thinned towards six o'clock, and there was no one now at the
+far end of the room but a man who seemed to be looking at the sketches
+on the screen. Olive thought she might take a cup of tea herself, and
+she was pouring it out when he turned and came towards her. It was Tor
+di Rocca.
+
+"Ah," he said smilingly, "the girl in Michelin's picture reminded me
+of you, but I did not realise that you were indeed the 'Jeune Fille.'
+I have been away from Rome these last few days. Have you missed me?"
+
+His hot brown eyes lingered over her.
+
+"Don't."
+
+"I should like a cup of coffee."
+
+Her hand shook so as she gave it to him that much was spilled on the
+floor. She had pitied him once; he remembered that as he saw how she
+shrank from him. "Michelin has been more fortunate than I have," he
+said deliberately.
+
+"I beg your pardon."
+
+"You seem to be at home here."
+
+"I suppose you must follow the bent of your mind."
+
+"I suppose I must," he agreed as he stood aside to let her pass. She
+had defied him that night in Florence. "Never!" she had said. And now
+he saw that she smiled at Camille as she went by him into the further
+room, and the old bad blood stirred in him and he ached with a fierce
+jealousy.
+
+She had denied him. "Never!" she had said.
+
+As he joined the group of men by the door Gontrand turned to him. "Ah,
+Prince, have you heard that Michelin has already sold his picture?"
+
+"I am not surprised," the Italian answered suavely. "If I was
+rich--but I am not. Who is the happy man?"
+
+"That stout grey-haired American who left half an hour since. Did you
+notice him? He is Vandervelde, the great millionaire art collector."
+
+"May one ask the price?"
+
+"Eight thousand francs," answered Camille. He looked tired, but his
+blue eyes were very bright. "I am glad, and yet I shall be sorry to
+part with it."
+
+"You will still have the charming original," the Prince said not quite
+pleasantly.
+
+There was a sudden silence. The men all waited for Camille's answer.
+Beyond, in the next room, they heard the two girls splashing the
+water, clattering the cups and plates.
+
+The young Frenchman paused in the act of striking a match. He looked
+surprised. "But this is the original. I have made no copy."
+
+"I meant--" The Prince stopped short. After all, he thought, he goes
+well who goes slowly.
+
+Camille was waiting. "You meant?"
+
+Tor di Rocca had had time to think. "Nothing," he said sweetly.
+
+Silence was again ensuing but Gontrand flung himself into the breach.
+
+"The Duchess said she wanted her daughter's portrait painted."
+
+"She said the same to me."
+
+"Are you going to do it?"
+
+Camille suppressed a yawn. "I don't know. _Qui vivra verra._"
+
+He was glad when they were all gone, Gontrand and Tor di Rocca and the
+rest, and he could stretch himself and sigh, and sing at the top of
+his voice:
+
+      "'Nicholas, je vais me pendre
+    Qu'est-ce que tu vas dire de cela?
+    Si vous vous pendez ou v'vous pendez pas
+      Ça m'est ben egal, Mam'zelle.
+      Si vous vous pendez ou v'vous pendez pas
+    Oh, laissez moi planter mes chous!'"
+
+When Olive came out of the inner room presently he told her that he
+had sold the "Jeune Fille." "The Duchess has nearly commissioned me to
+paint her Mélanie. It went off well, don't you think so? Come at nine
+to-morrow."
+
+"Yes, if you want me. Good-night, M'sieur Camille," she said. "Are you
+coming, Rosina?"
+
+"Why do you wait for her?" he asked curiously. "I should not have
+thought you had much in common."
+
+"She is my friend. She knows I do not care to be alone."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+When Olive came to the _atelier_ on the following morning Camille was
+not there, but the door was open and he had left a note on the table
+for her.
+
+    "I have had a letter from the Duchess. She is leaving
+    Rome to-day but she wants to see me before she goes. It
+    must be about her daughter's portrait. I must go to her
+    hotel, but I shall drive both ways and be back in half
+    an hour. Wait for me.--C. M."
+
+Olive took off her hat and coat as usual behind the screen. She was
+choosing a book from the tattered row of old favourites on the shelf
+when she heard a step outside. She listened, thinking that it was
+Camille, and fearing that the commission had not been given him. It
+was not like him to be so silent.
+
+"I thought you would be singing--" she stopped short.
+
+Filippo came on into the room.
+
+"M'sieur Michelin is out," she said.
+
+"So the porter told me. You do not think I want to see him. Will you
+come with me to Albano to-day?"
+
+She shook her head.
+
+"To-morrow, then. Why not?"
+
+"I have my work."
+
+"Your work! I see you believe you can do without me now. How long do
+you think you will be able to earn money in this way? All these men
+will be leaving Rome soon. The schools will be closed until next
+October. You will have to choose between the devil and the deep sea--"
+
+"What is the good of talking about it?" she said wearily. "I know I
+have nothing to look forward to. I know that. Please go away."
+
+"Do you know that you have cost me more than any other woman I have
+ever met? You injured me; will you make no amends?"
+
+She laughed. "So you are the victim."
+
+"Yes," he said passionately, "I told you before that I suffered, and
+you believed me then. Is it my fault that I am made like this? Since
+that night in Florence when I held you in my arms I have had no
+peace."
+
+"You behaved very badly. I can't think why I let myself be sorry for
+you."
+
+"Badly! Some men would, but I loved you even then."
+
+She looked wistfully towards the door. "I wish you would go. There are
+so many other women."
+
+"I love you, I want you," he answered, and he caught her in his arms
+and held her in spite of her struggles. "I have you!" He forced her
+head down upon his breast and kissed her mouth. She thought the
+hateful pressure of his lips, the hateful fire of his eyes would kill
+her, and when, at last, she wrenched herself away she screamed with
+the despairing violence of some trapped, wild thing.
+
+"Camille! Camille!"
+
+It seemed to her that if he did not hear her this must be the end of
+all, and she suffered an agony of terror. She thanked God as the door
+below was flung to and he came running up the stairs.
+
+The Prince let her go and half turned to meet him, but Camille was not
+inclined to parley. He struck, and struck hard. Filippo slipped on the
+polished floor, tried to recover himself, and fell heavily at the
+girl's feet.
+
+He got up at once, and the two men stood glaring at each other. Olive
+looked from one to the other. "It was nothing. I am sorry," she said
+breathlessly. "He was trying to--I was frightened. It was nothing,
+really, but--but I am glad you came."
+
+"So am I," the Frenchman said grimly. His blue eyes were grown grey as
+steel. "I am waiting, Prince."
+
+A little blood had sprung from Filippo's cut lip and run down his
+chin. He wiped it with his handkerchief and looked thoughtfully at
+the stain on the white linen before he spoke.
+
+"Who is your friend?"
+
+"René Gontrand."
+
+"No, no!" cried the girl. "Filippo, it was your fault. Can't you be
+sorry and forget? Camille!"
+
+"Hush, child," he said, "you do not understand."
+
+Tor di Rocca was looking at her now with the old insolent smile in his
+red-brown eyes. "Ah, you said 'Never!' but presently you will come."
+
+So he left them.
+
+Olive expected to be "poored," but Camille, as it seemed, deliberately
+took no notice of her. She watched him picking a stick of charcoal
+from the accumulation of odd brushes, pens and pencils on the table.
+
+"What a handsome devil it is. Lean, lithe and brown. He should go
+naked as a faun; such things roamed about the primeval woods seeking
+what they might devour. I wish I had asked him to sit for me."
+
+He went to his easel and began to sketch a head on the canvas he had
+prepared for the Rosamund. "He has the short Neronic upper lip," he
+murmured.
+
+Olive lost patience. "I wonder you had the heart to risk spoiling its
+contour," she said resentfully.
+
+"With my fist, you mean?"
+
+"I--I am very sorry--" she began. He saw that she was crying, and he
+was perplexed, not quite understanding what she wanted of him.
+
+"What am I to say to you?" He came over and sat down beside her, and
+she let him hold her hand. "I know so little--not even your name. I
+have asked no questions, but of course I saw-- Why do you not go back
+to your friends?"
+
+She dried her eyes. "I have cousins in Milan, but I have lost their
+address, and they would not be able to help me. I have burnt my boats.
+I used to give lessons, but it was not easy to find pupils, and then I
+met Rosina. I cannot go back to being a governess after being a model.
+I have done no wrong, but no one would have me if they knew. You see
+one has to go on--"
+
+"Have you known Tor di Rocca long? He was here last winter. He has a
+villa somewhere outside Rome. I think it belonged to his mother. She
+was an Orsini."
+
+"You are not going to fight him?"
+
+Outside, in the ilex wood, birds were calling to one another. The sun
+gilded the green of the gnarled old trees; it had rained in the night,
+and the garden was sweet with the scent of moist earth. The young man
+sighed. He had meant to take his "little brother" into the Campagna
+this April day to see the spring pageant of the skies, to hear the
+singing of larks high up at heaven's gate, the tinkling of sheep
+bells, the gurgling of water springs half hidden in the green lush
+grass that grows in the shadow of the ruined Claudian aqueducts.
+
+"Camille, answer me."
+
+He got up and went back to his easel. "You must run away now," he
+said. "I can't work this morning. I think I shall go to Naples for a
+few days, but I will let you know when I return. We must get on with
+the 'Rosamund.'"
+
+She went obediently to put on her hat, but the face she saw reflected
+in the little hanging mirror was pale and troubled. He came with her
+to the door, and when she gave him her hand he bent to kiss it. Her
+eyes filled again with tears. He will be killed, she thought, and for
+me.
+
+"Don't fight! For my sake, don't. I shall begin to think that I am a
+creature of ill-omen. They say some women are like that; they have the
+_mal occhio_; they give sorrow--"
+
+"That is absurd," he said roughly, and then, in a changed voice,
+"Good-bye, child."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+Olive walked home to Ripetta. She felt tired and shaken, and unhappily
+conscious of some effort that must be made presently.
+
+"He will be killed--and for me." "For me." "For me." She heard that
+echo of her thought through all the clamour of the streets, the shrill
+cries, the clatter of hoofs, the rattling of wheels over the cobble
+stones. She heard it as she climbed the stairs to her room. When she
+had taken off her hat and coat she poured some eau-de-cologne with
+water into a cup and drank it--not this time to Italy or the joy of
+life. She lay down on her bed and stayed there for a while, not
+resting, but thinking or trying to think.
+
+Was she really a sort of number thirteen, a grain of spilt salt,
+ill-omened, disastrous? Camille would not think so; but it seemed to
+her that she had never been able to make anyone happy, and that there
+must be some taint in her therefore, some flaw in her nature.
+
+Now, here, at last, was a thing well worth doing. She must risk her
+soul, lose it, perhaps, or rather, exchange it for a man's life. She
+had hoarded it hitherto, had been miserly, selfish, seeking to save
+the poor thing as though it were a pearl of price. Now she saw
+herself as the veriest rag of flesh parading virtue, useless,
+comfortless, helpless, clinging to her code, and justifying all the
+trouble she gave to others by a reference to the impalpable, elusive
+and possible non-existent immortal and inner self she had held so
+dear. She was ashamed. Ah, now at last she would give ungrudgingly.
+Her feet should not falter, nor her eyes be dimmed by any shadow of
+fear or of regret, though she went by perilous ways to an almost
+certain end.
+
+Soon after noon she got up and prepared to face the world again, and
+towards three o'clock she returned to the Villa Medici. She had to
+ring the porter's bell as the garden gate was shut, and the old man
+came grumblingly as usual.
+
+"Monsieur Michelin will see no one. Did he not tell you so this
+morning?"
+
+"But I have come for Monsieur Gontrand," she said.
+
+She hoped now above all things to find the black Gascon alone in his
+_atelier_ near the Belvedere. The first move depended upon him, and
+there was no time to spare. She determined to await his return in the
+wood if he were out, but there was no need. He opened his door at once
+in answer to her knocking.
+
+"I have come--may I speak to you for a moment?" she began rather
+confusedly. He looked tired and worried, and was so evidently alarmed
+at the sight of her, and afraid of what she was going to say next,
+that she could hardly help smiling. "I want to ask you two questions.
+I hope you will answer them."
+
+"I should be glad to please you, mademoiselle, but--"
+
+She hurried on. "First, when are they going to fight? Oh, tell me,
+tell me! I know you were to be with him. I know you are his friend. Be
+mine too! What harm can it do? I swear I will keep it secret."
+
+"Ah, well, if you promise that," he said. "It is to be to-morrow
+afternoon."
+
+"Where?"
+
+He shook his head. "I really cannot tell you that."
+
+"Well, the hour is fixed. It will not be changed?"
+
+"No, the Prince preferred the early morning, but Michelin has an
+appointment he must keep with Vandervelde at noon."
+
+"Nothing will persuade him to alter it then?" she insisted.
+
+"Nothing."
+
+"That is well," she said sighing. "Good-bye, M'sieur Gontrand.
+You--you will do your best for Camille."
+
+"You may rely on me," he answered.
+
+She went down the steps of Trinitŕ del Monte, and across the Piazza di
+Spagna to the English book-shop at the corner, where she bought a
+_Roman Herald_. Three minutes study of the visitors' list sufficed to
+inform her that the Prince was staying at the Hotel de Russie close
+by. The afternoon was waning, and already the narrow streets of the
+lower town were in shadow; soon the shops would be lit up and gay with
+the gleam of marbles, the glimmer of Roman pearls and silks, and the
+green, grotesque bronzes that strangers buy.
+
+Olive walked down the Via Babuino past the ugly English church,
+crossed the road, and entered the hall of the hotel in the wake of a
+party of Americans. They went on towards the lift and left her
+uncertain which way to turn, so she appealed to the gold-laced,
+gigantic, and rather awful porter.
+
+"Prince Tor di Rocca?"
+
+He softened at her mention of the illustrious name.
+
+"If you will go into the lounge there I will send to see if the Prince
+is in. What name shall I say?"
+
+"Miss Agar. I have no card with me."
+
+She chose a window-seat near a writing-table at the far end of the
+room, and there Filippo found her when he came in five minutes later.
+He was prepared for anything but the smile in the blue eyes lifted to
+his, and he paled as he took the hand she gave and raised it to his
+lips.
+
+"Ah," he said fervently, "if you were always kind."
+
+"You would be good?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"For a week, or a month? But you need not answer me. Filippo, I should
+like some tea."
+
+"Of course," he said eagerly. "Forgive me," and he hurried away to
+order it.
+
+When he returned his dark face was radiant. "Do you know that is the
+second time you have called me by my name? You said Filippo this
+morning. Ah, I heard you, and I have thought of it since."
+
+The girl hardened her heart. She realised--she had always realised
+that this man was dangerous. A fire consumed him. It was a fire that
+blazed up to destroy, no pleasant light and warmth upon the hearth of
+a good life, but women were apt to flutter, moth-like, into the flame
+of it nevertheless.
+
+He sat down beside her and took her hand in his.
+
+"I know I was violent this morning; I could not help myself. I am a
+Tor di Rocca. It would be so easy for you to make me happy--"
+
+She listened quietly.
+
+A waiter brought the tea and set it on a little table between them.
+
+"You had coffee yesterday," she said. "It seems years ago."
+
+"I have forgotten yesterday, _Incipit vita nuova_! Do you remember I
+came to you dressed in Dante's red _lucco_?"
+
+"Yes, but you are not a bit like him."
+
+She came to the point presently. "Filippo, you say you want me?"
+
+"More than anything in this world."
+
+Her eyes met his and held them. "Well, if you will get out of fighting
+M'sieur Michelin I will come to you--meet you--anywhere and at any
+hour after noon to-morrow."
+
+"Ah, you make conditions."
+
+"Of course."
+
+"How can I get out of fighting him? The man struck me, insulted me."
+
+"Yes," she said, "and you know why!"
+
+"I have asked your pardon for that," he said with an effort that
+brought the colour into his face.
+
+"Yes, but that is not enough. I don't choose that this unpleasantness
+should go any further. Write a letter to him now--we will concoct it
+together--and--and--I will be nice to you."
+
+She smiled at him, and there was no shadow of fear or of regret in the
+blue eyes that looked towards the almost certain end.
+
+"Well, I must be let down easily," he said unwillingly. "I am not
+going to lick his boots."
+
+They sat down at the writing-table together, and she began to dictate.
+"Just scribble this, and if it does you can make a fair copy
+afterwards.
+
+"'DEAR MONSIEUR MICHELIN,--On reflection I understand that your
+conduct this morning was justifiable from your point of view, and I
+withdraw--'"
+
+Filippo laid down the pen. "I shall not say that."
+
+"Begin again then," she said patiently.
+
+"'I have been asked to write to you by a third person whom I wish to
+please. She tells me that this morning's unpleasantness resulted from
+a misunderstanding. She says she has deceived you, and she hopes that
+you will forgive her. I suppose from what she has said that your hasty
+action was excusable, as you thought her other than she is, and I
+think that you may now regret it and agree with me that this need go
+no farther--'"
+
+"This is better for me," he said.
+
+"Yes." She took the pen from him and wrote under his signature: "You
+will be sorry to know that your child is a liar. Try to forget her
+existence."
+
+"You can send it now by someone who must wait for an answer," she
+explained. "I shall stay here until it comes."
+
+"Very well," he said sulkily, and he went out into the hall to confer
+with the porter. "An important letter, _Eccellenza_? A _vetturino_
+will take it for you--"
+
+Olive heard the opening and shutting of doors, the shrill whistle
+answered by harsh, raucous cries, the rattling of wheels. Filippo came
+back to her.
+
+"I have done my part." Then, looking at her closely, he saw that she
+was very pale. "Is all you have implied and I have written true?"
+
+"No."
+
+"You must love him very much."
+
+"I? Not at all, as you understand love."
+
+The ensuing half-hour seemed long to the girl; Filippo talked
+desultorily, but there were intervals of silence. She was too tired to
+attempt to answer him, and, besides, his evident restlessness, his
+inattention, afforded her some acrid amusement. He was like a boy,
+eager in pursuit of the bird in the bush, heedless of the poor thing
+fluttering, dying in his hand. It was now near the dinner-hour, and
+people were coming into the lounge to await the sounding of the gong;
+from where Olive sat she could see all the entrances and exits--as in
+a glass darkly--in the clouded surface of a mirror that hung on the
+wall and reflected the white gleam of shirt fronts, the shimmer of
+silks, and she was quick to note that Filippo was interested in what
+she saw as a pink blur.
+
+His love was as fully winged for flight as any Beast of the book of
+Revelations; it was swift as a sword to pierce and be withdrawn. He
+could not be altogether loyal for a day. Olive's heart was filled
+with pity for the women who had cared.
+
+When, at last, the answer to the letter came, the Prince gave it to
+her to read. It was very short, a mere scrawl of scarlet ink on the
+brown, rough-edged paper that was one of Camille's affectations.
+
+    "My zeal was evidently misplaced and I regret its
+    excess."
+
+Olive was speechless; her eyes were dimmed, her throat ached with
+tears. How easily he believed the worst--this man who had been her
+friend. She rose to go, but Filippo laid a detaining hand upon her
+arm.
+
+"To-morrow." He had already told her where and when to meet him, and
+had given her two keys.
+
+"Are you sure you want me?" she said hurriedly. "There are so many
+women in your life. You remind me of the South American Republic that
+made--and shot--seventeen presidents in six months."
+
+He laughed. "Do I? You remind me of an eel, or a little grey mouse
+trying to get out of a trap. There is no way out, my dear, unless, of
+course, you want me to kill your Frenchman. I am a good shot."
+
+"I will come."
+
+She looked for pink as she went out of the room, and saw a very
+pretty woman in rose-coloured tulle sitting alone and near the door.
+
+She had given ungrudgingly, unfaltering, and there was no shadow of
+regret in her eyes; it was nothing to her that he should care for this
+other little body, for bare white shoulders and a fluff of yellow
+hair. He had never been more to her than a means to an end, and he was
+to be that now.
+
+She took a tram from the Piazza del Popolo to the Rotonda. There was a
+large ironmonger's shop at the corner; she remembered having noticed
+it before. She went in and asked to look at some of the pistols they
+had in the window. Several were brought out for her to see, and she
+chose a small one. The young man who served her showed her how to load
+it and pull the trigger. He wrapped it in brown paper and made a loop
+in the string for her to carry it by. She thanked him.
+
+The bells of all the churches were ringing the Ave Maria when she left
+the Hotel de Russie an hour ago, and it was dark when she reached her
+own room. The stars were bright, shining through a rift of clouds that
+hid the crescent moon. Olive laid the awkwardly-shaped parcel she
+carried down upon the table while she lit her candle. Then she got her
+scissors and cut the string. This was the key of a door through which
+she must pass. Death was the way out.
+
+The little flame of the candle gleamed on the polished steel. It was
+almost a pretty thing, so smooth and shining. It was well worth the
+money she had paid for it; it was going to be useful, indispensable
+to-morrow.
+
+Suddenly, in spite of herself, she began to think of her grave. It
+would be dug soon. She would be brought to it in a black covered cart.
+No prayers would be said, and there would be no sound at all but that
+of the earth falling upon the coffin.
+
+She sprang up, her face chalk white, her eyes wide and dark with
+terror. She was afraid, horribly afraid of this lonely and violent
+end. Jean would never know that she died rather than let another
+man--Jean would never know--Jean--
+
+"I can't! I can't!" she said aloud piteously.
+
+She was trembling so that she had to cling to the banisters as she
+went down the stairs to save herself from falling. There was a
+post-office at the corner. She went in and explained that she wanted
+to send a telegram. The young woman behind the counter glanced at the
+clock.
+
+"Where to? You have half an hour."
+
+"To Florence." She wrote it and gave it in.
+
+    "To JEAN AVENEL, Villa Fiorelli, Settignano, Florence.
+
+    "If you would help me come if you can to the Villino
+    Bella Vista at Albano to-morrow soon after noon; watch
+    for me and follow me in. I know it may not be possible,
+    but the danger is real to me and I want you so much. In
+    any case remember that my heart was yours only.--OLIVE."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+Jean sat leaning forward that he might see the road. The night was
+dark, starless, and very wet, and he and the chauffeur were all
+streaming with rain and splashed with liquid mud that spattered up
+from the car wheels. Now and again they rattled over the rough cobble
+stones of a village street, but the way for the most part lay through
+deep woods and by mountain gorges. The roar of Arno in flood, swollen
+with melted snows, and hurrying on its way to the sea, was with them
+for a while, but other sounds there were none save the rustling of
+leaves in the coverts, the moaning of wind in the tree-tops, the
+drip-drip of the rain, and the steady throbbing of the car.
+
+When the darkness lightened to the grey glimmer of a cheerless dawn
+Jean changed places with the chauffeur; Vincenzo was a careful driver,
+and he dared not trust his own impatience any longer. His hands were
+numbed with cold, and now he took off his gloves to chafe them, but
+first he felt in his inner pocket for the flimsy sheets of paper that
+lay there safe against his heart.
+
+He had been sitting alone at the piano in the music-room, not playing,
+but softly touching the keys and dreaming in the dark, when Hilaire
+came in to him.
+
+"You need not write to her after all. She has sent for you. Hear what
+she says." He stood in the doorway to read the message by the light
+that filtered in from the hall. Jean listened carefully.
+
+"The car--I must tell Vincenzo." The lines of the strong, lean face
+seemed to have softened, and the brown eyes were very bright. His
+brother smiled as he laid a kindly hand upon his arm. "The car will be
+round soon. I have sent word, and you have plenty of time. Assure
+Olive of my brotherly regard, and tell her that my books are still
+waiting to be catalogued. If she will come here for a while she will
+be doing a kindness to a lonely man."
+
+"I wonder what she is frightened of," Jean said thoughtfully, and
+frowning a little. "She says 'was yours' too; I don't like that."
+
+"Well, you must do your best for her," Hilaire answered in his most
+matter-of-fact tone. "Be prepared."
+
+Jean agreed, and when he went to get ready he transferred a pistol
+from a drawer of the bureau to his coat pocket. "I shall bring her
+back with me if I can. Good-bye."
+
+The sun shone for a few minutes after its rising through a rift in the
+clouds, but soon went in again; the rain still poured down, and the
+distance was hidden in mist that clung to the hillsides and filled
+each ravine and cranny in the rocks. They were near Orvieto when the
+car broke down; Vincenzo was out on the road at once, but his master
+sat quite still. He could not endure the thought of any delay.
+
+"What is it? Will it take long?" He had forced himself to wait a
+minute before he asked the question, but still his lips felt stiff,
+and all the colour had gone out of them.
+
+The man reassured him. "It is nothing."
+
+Jean went to help him, and soon they were able to go on again.
+
+They came presently to the fen lands--the Campagna that so greatly
+needs the magic and glamour of the Roman sunshine, the vault of the
+blue sky above, and the sound of larks singing to adorn it. It seemed
+a desolate and dreary waste, wind-swept, and shivering under the lash
+of the rain on such a morning as this, and the car was a very small
+thing moving in that apparently illimitable plain along a road that
+might be endless. Jean saw a herd of the wild, black buffaloes
+standing in a pool at the foot of a broken arch of the Claudian
+aqueduct, and now and again he caught a glimpse of fragments of
+masonry, or a ruined tower, ancient stronghold of one or other of the
+robber barons who preyed on Rome-ward pilgrims in the age of faith and
+rapine.
+
+They reached Albano soon after eleven o'clock, and Jean left his man
+in the car while he went in to the Ristorante of the Albergo della
+Posta. He ordered a cup of coffee, and sat down at one of the little
+marble tables near the door to drink it. There was no one else in the
+place at the moment.
+
+"Can you tell me the way to the Villino Bella Vista?"
+
+The waiter looked at him curiously. "It is down in the olive woods and
+quite near the lake, and you must go to it by a lane from the Galleria
+di Sopra, the upper road to Castel Gandolfo." After a momentary
+hesitation he added, "_Scusi!_ But are you thinking of taking it,
+signore?"
+
+Jean started. It had not occurred to him that the house might be
+empty. "I don't know," he answered cautiously. "Has it been to let
+long?"
+
+"Oh, yes," the man said. "The Princess Tor di Rocca spent her last years
+there, alone, and after her death the agent in Rome found tenants. But
+lately no one has come to it, even to see." He lowered his voice. "The
+place has a bad name hereabouts. The _contadini_--rough, ignorant folk,
+signore--say she still walks in the garden at moonrise, waiting for the
+husband and son who never came; and the women who go to wash their
+linen in the lake will not come back that way at night for fear of
+seeing her dead eyes peering at them through the bars of the gate."
+
+"Ah, that is very interesting," Jean said appreciatively. He finished
+his coffee, paid for it with a piece of silver, and waited to light a
+cigarette before he went out.
+
+Vincenzo sat still in the car, a model of patient impassivity, but he
+turned a hungry eye on his master as he came down the steps.
+
+"You can go and get something to eat. I shall drive up to the Galleria
+di Sopra, and you must follow me there. You will find the car at the
+side of the road. Stay with it until I come, and if anyone asks
+questions you need not answer them."
+
+Jean drove up the steep hill towards the lake. The rain was still
+heavy, and the squalid streets of the little town were running with
+mud. He turned to the left by the Calvary at the foot of the ilex
+avenue by the Capuchin church, and stopped the car some way further
+down the road. The lane the waiter had told him of was not hard to
+find. It was a narrow path between high walls of olive orchards; it
+led straight down to the lake, and the entrance to the Villino was
+quite close to the water's edge. Nothing could be seen of it from the
+lane but the name painted on the gate-posts and one glimpse of a
+shuttered window, forlorn and viewless as a blind eye, and half hidden
+by flowering laurels. Jean looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to
+twelve, and she had written "after noon," but he could not be sure
+that she had not come already, and since he had heard the name of Tor
+di Rocca he was more than ever anxious to be with her.
+
+He tried the gate but it was locked; there was nothing for it but to
+climb the wall, and as he was light and active he scrambled over
+without much difficulty and landed in a green tangle of roses and wild
+vines. He knocked at the house door, and stood for a while listening
+to the empty answering echoes and to the drip-drip of rain from the
+eaves. Evidently there was no one there. He drew back into the
+shrubberies; great showers of drops were shaken down on him from the
+gold-powdered mimosa blossoms that met above his head; he shook
+himself impatiently, like a dog that is disturbed while on guard. From
+where he stood he could see the gate and the grass-grown path that led
+from it to the house. The time passed very slowly. He looked at his
+watch four times in the next fifteen minutes, and he was beginning to
+wonder if he had not left Florence on a fool's errand when Olive came.
+
+He saw her fumbling with the key; it was hard to turn in the rusty
+lock, and she had to close her umbrella and stand it against the wall
+so as to have both hands free. The gate swung open slowly, creaking on
+its warped hinges. Jean noticed that she left it unlatched and that
+she looked back over her shoulder twice as she came down the path, as
+though she thought someone might be following her.
+
+She opened the house door with a key she had and went in, and he came
+after her. He stood for a moment on the threshold listening. She was
+hurrying from room to room, opening the shutters and the windows and
+letting in the light and air; the doors banged after her, and muslin
+curtains flapped like wings as the wind blew them.
+
+His heart was beating so that he thought she must hear it before she
+saw him, before his step sounded in the passage. As he came in she
+gave a sort of little cry and ran to him, and he put his arms about
+her and kissed her again and again; her dear lips that were wet and
+cold with rain, her soft brown hair, the curves of cheek and chin that
+were as sweet to feel as to see. One small hand held the lapel of his
+coat, and he was pleasantly aware of the other being laid about his
+neck. She had wanted him so much--and he had come.
+
+"Thank God, you are here, Jean. Oh, if you knew how frightened I have
+been."
+
+He kissed her once more, and then, framing her face with his hands, he
+looked down into her eyes. The blue eyes yearned to his, but there
+was fear in them still, and he saw the colour he had brought into her
+cheeks fading.
+
+"I am not worth all the trouble I have given you."
+
+"Perhaps not," he said, smiling. "Hilaire sent you a long message, but
+I want to hear what we are supposed to be doing here first."
+
+"Dear Hilaire!... Jean, you won't be angry?"
+
+"I don't promise anything," he said. "I shall probably be furious. But
+in any case, if it is going to be a long story we may as well make
+ourselves at home."
+
+"Not here! I must tell you quickly, before he comes."
+
+He noticed that she looked towards the door, and he understood that
+she was listening fearfully for the creaking of the gate, the sound of
+footsteps on the path outside, the turning of the key in the lock.
+
+"Tor di Rocca, I suppose? When is he coming?"
+
+"Between one and two."
+
+"We have at least half an hour then," he said comfortably, and drew
+her closer to him with his arm about her shoulders.
+
+"When I first came to Rome I tried for weeks to get something to do,
+but no one seemed to want lessons. Then one day Signora Aurelia's
+sister told me how poor she was. She cried, and I was very much upset
+because I felt I was a burden, and that very afternoon I found out a
+way of making money ... Jean, you won't be angry?"
+
+"No, dearest."
+
+"I became a model--" She paused, but he said nothing and she went on.
+"I sat for one man only after the first week, and he was always good
+and kind to me, always. He painted a picture of me--I think you would
+like it--and the day before yesterday he had a show of his work. A lot
+of people came. I did not see Prince Tor di Rocca, but he was there,
+and after a while he spoke to me. I had met him before and I
+understood from what he said that Mamie Whittaker had broken her
+engagement with him.
+
+"The next morning M'sieur Camille had to go out, and I was alone in
+the studio when the Prince came in and tried to make love to me. I was
+frightened, and I screamed, and just then Camille returned, and he
+knocked him down. He got up again at once. Nothing much was said, and
+he went away, but I understood that they were going to fight. I went
+home and thought about it, and when I realised that one or other of
+them might be killed I felt I could not bear it.
+
+"I am so afraid of death, Jean. I try to believe in a future life, but
+that will be different, and I want the people I love in this one;
+just human, looking tired sometimes and shabby, or happy and pleased
+about things. I remember my mother had a blue hat that suited her, and
+I can't think of it now without tears, because I long to see her
+pinning it on before the glass and asking me if it is straight, and I
+suppose I shall never see or hear that again, even if we do meet in
+heaven. Death is so absolutely the end. If only people are alive
+distance and absence don't really matter; there is always hope. And
+then, you know, Camille is so brilliant; it would be a loss to France,
+to the whole world, if he was killed."
+
+"What did you say his name was?"
+
+"Camille Michelin."
+
+"I know him then. He came to me once in Paris, after a concert, and
+fell on my neck without an introduction. Afterwards he painted my
+portrait."
+
+"He is nice, isn't he?" she said eagerly.
+
+He assented. "Well, go on. You could not let them fight--"
+
+"I went to see the Prince at his hotel, and I persuaded him to write a
+sort of apology."
+
+"You persuaded him. How?"
+
+"Jean, that man is the exact opposite of the centurion's servant; say
+'go' and he stays, 'don't do it' and he does it. And I once made the
+fatal mistake of telling him I could never love him. He did not want
+me to before, but now-- He is a spoilt boy who only cares for the
+fruit that is forbidden or withheld. It is the scaling of the orchard
+wall that he enjoys; if he could walk in by the gate in broad daylight
+I am sure he never would, or, at any rate, he would soon walk out
+again. I promised to come here alone to meet him, and not to tell
+Camille, and I have kept my promise. If you knew how frightened I
+was.... I thought you might be away, and that Hilaire perhaps could
+not come in your stead, though I knew he would if it were possible."
+
+The man left her then and went to the window, where he stood looking
+out upon the driving mist and rain that made the troubled waters of
+the lake seem grey, and shrouded all the wooded hills beyond.
+
+"Suppose I had not come," he said presently. "What would you have
+done?"
+
+"You ask that?"
+
+He turned upon her. "Yes," he said hardly, "just that."
+
+She took a small pistol from the pocket of her loose sac coat and gave
+it to him.
+
+"So you were going to shoot him? I thought--"
+
+She tried to still the quivering of her lips. "No, myself. Oh, I am
+not really inconsistent. I told you I was afraid of death. I will say
+all now and have done; I am afraid of life too, with its long slow
+pains, and most of all of what men call love. I don't want to go on,"
+she cried hysterically. "I am sick. I don't want to see, or hear, or
+feel anything any more. I have had enough. All this year I have
+struggled, and people have been kind; but friendship is a poor, weak
+thing, and love--love is hateful."
+
+She hid her face in her hands.
+
+"Rubbish!" he said, and then, in a changed voice, "My darling, you
+will be better soon. I must get you away from here."
+
+Gently he drew her hands away from her face and lifted them to his
+lips; the soft palms were wet with tears.
+
+They were standing on the threshold of an inner room. "You can go in
+here until I have done with Tor di Rocca," he said. "But first I must
+tell you that Gertrude has written to me asking me to get a divorce.
+There is a man, of course, and the case will not be defended. Olive,
+will you marry me when I am free?"
+
+"Oh, Jean, I--I am so glad."
+
+"You will marry me then?" he insisted.
+
+"How thin you are, my dear. Just a very nice bag of bones. Were--were
+you sorry when I came away?"
+
+"You little torment," he said. "Answer me."
+
+"Ask again. I want to hear."
+
+"Will you marry me?"
+
+"Yes, of course."
+
+A nightingale began to sing in the garden; broken notes, a mere echo
+of what the stars heard at night, but infinitely sweet as the soul of
+a rose made audible; and as he sang a sudden ray of sunshine shot the
+grey rain with silver. It seemed to Jean that rose-sweetness was all
+about him in this his short triumph of love; that a flower's heart
+beat against his own, that a flower's lips caressed the lean darkness
+of his cheek. There were threads of gold in the soft brown tangle of
+hair--gold unalloyed as was the hard-won happiness that made him feel
+himself invincible, panoplied in an armour of joy that should defend
+them from all slings and arrows. He was happy, and so the world seemed
+full of music; there was harmony in the swaying of tall dark
+cypresses, moved by winds that strewed the grass with torn petals of
+orange blossoms from the trees by the lake side, in the clouds'
+processional, in the patter of rain on the green shining laurel
+leaves.
+
+Laurels--his laurels had been woven in with rue, and latterly with
+rosemary for dear remembrance; he had never cared greatly for his fame
+and it seemed worthless to him now that he had realised his dream and
+gathered his rose.
+
+He was impatient to be gone, to take the woman he loved out of this
+house of sad memories, of empty echoes, of dust and rust and decay.
+Already he seemed to feel the rush of the cold night air, to hear the
+roar of Arno, hurrying to the sea, above the steady throbbing of the
+car; to see the welcoming lights of home shining out of the dark at
+the steep edge of the hills above Settignano.
+
+"About the Prince," he said presently. "Am I to fight him?"
+
+She started. "Oh, no! That would be worse than ever. I thought you
+were too English for that," she said naďvely.
+
+He smiled. "Well, perhaps I am, but I suppose there may be a bit of a
+scuffle. You won't mind that?"
+
+"I don't know," she said helplessly.
+
+A moment later they heard the gate creak as it swung on its hinges.
+"He is coming."
+
+They kissed hurriedly, with, on her side, a passion of farewell, and
+he would have made her go into the room beyond, but she clung to him,
+crying incoherently. "No ... no ... together ..."
+
+Tor di Rocca stopped short by the door; the smile that had been in his
+hot eyes as they met Olive's faded, and the short, Neronic upper lip
+lifted in a sort of snarl.
+
+"I don't quite understand," he said. "How did you come here? This is
+my house, Avenel."
+
+"I know it, and I do not wish to trespass on your hospitality. You
+will excuse us?"
+
+But the Prince stood in the way. "I am not a child to be played with.
+I'll not let her go. You may leave us, however," he added, and he
+stood aside as though to let him pass.
+
+Jean met his angry eyes. "The lady is unwilling. Let that be the end,"
+he said quietly.
+
+Olive watched the Italian fearfully; his face was writhen, and all
+semblance of beauty had gone out of it; its gnawing, tearing, animal
+ferocity was appalling. When he called to her she moved instinctively
+nearer to Jean, and then with the swift prescience of love threw
+herself on his breast, tried to shelter him, as the other drew his
+revolver and fired.
+
+Jean had his arm about her, but he let her slip now and fall in a
+huddled heap at his feet. She was safer there, and out of the way. The
+two men exchanged several shots, but Jean's went wide; he was hampered
+by his heavy motor coat, and the second bullet had scored its way
+through his flesh before he could get at his weapon; there were four
+in his body when he dropped.
+
+Tor di Rocca leant against the wall; he was unhurt, but he felt a
+little faint and sick for the moment. Hurriedly he rehearsed what he
+should say to the _Questore_ presently. He had met the girl in this
+house of his; Avenel, her lover, had broken in upon them; he had shot
+her and fired at the Prince himself, but without effect, and he had
+killed him in self-defence.
+
+That was plain enough, but it was essential that his should be the
+only version, and when the smoke cleared away he crossed the room to
+look at the two who must speak no word, and to make sure.
+
+The man was still alive for all the lead in him; Tor di Rocca watched,
+with a sort of cruel, boyish interest in the creature he had maimed,
+as slowly, painfully, Jean dragged himself a little nearer to where
+the girl lay, tried to rise, and fell heavily. Surely he was dead
+now--but no; his hands still clawed at the carpet, and when Tor di
+Rocca stamped on his fingers he moaned as he tried to draw them away.
+Olive lived too, but her breathing was so faint that it would be
+easily stifled; the pressure of his hand even, but Filippo shrank from
+that. He could not touch the flesh that would be dust presently
+because of him. He hesitated, and then, muttering to himself, went to
+take one of the cushions from the window seat.
+
+Out in the garden the nightingale had not ceased to sing; the
+cypresses swayed in the winds that shook the promise of fruit from
+the trees; the green and rose and gold of a rainbow made fair the
+clouds' processional. The world was still full of music, of transitory
+life and joy, of dreams that have an ending.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+"_Via!_" said Vincenzo, and his black, oily forefinger, uplifted, gave
+emphasis to his words. "There are no such things as ghosts. This
+princess of yours cannot be seen at moonrise, or at any other time."
+
+There is no room for faith in the swelled head of young Italy, but the
+waiter was a middle-aged man. He paused in the act of re-filling the
+customer's cup. "You do not believe, then?"
+
+The Tuscan looked at him with all the scarcely-veiled contempt of the
+North for the South. "You tell me you are a Calabrian. _Si vede!_ You
+listen to all the priests say; you go down on your knees in the mud
+when the _frati_ are carrying a wax doll about the roads; you think a
+splinter of bone from the ribs of some fool who would not enjoy life
+while it lasted will cure a dropsy or a broken leg; you hope the rain
+will stop because a holy toe-nail is exposed on the altar. Ghosts,
+visions, miracles!"
+
+Vincenzo Torrigiani was the son of a stone-cutter in the village of
+Settignano, and he had worked as a boy in the gardens of the Villa
+Fiorelli. After a while the master had noticed and had taken a fancy
+to him, chiefly on account of his ever-ready and unusually dazzling
+and expansive smile, and he had been sent to a garage in Milan for six
+months. The quick-witted Florentine learned a great many things in a
+short time besides the necessary smattering of mechanics and the
+management of cars, and on his return he displayed many new airs and
+graces in addition, fortunately, to the same old smile. Later on he
+spent the obligatory two years in barracks, in a regiment of
+Bersaglieri, and came back to Avenel's service plus a still more
+varied knowledge of the world, a waxed moustache, and a superficial
+tendency to atheism. He was always delighted to air his views, and he
+fixed the shocked waiter now with a glittering eye as he proceeded to
+recite his unbelief at some length.
+
+"God is merely man's idea of himself at his best, and the devil is his
+idea of other people at their worst," he concluded.
+
+"Would you spend a night alone in this haunted house?"
+
+"_Sicuro!_"
+
+"Perhaps you will have to if your master takes the place. He has gone
+to look at it."
+
+Vincenzo gulped down the last of his coffee. "I must go," he said, but
+he was much too Italian to understand that a man in a hurry need not
+count his change twice over or bite every piece of silver to make
+sure of it.
+
+It was nearly one o'clock when, having outdistanced the pack of
+beggars that followed at his heels through the narrow streets of the
+town, he came out upon the broad, tree-shadowed upper road. He had
+stopped for a moment in the shelter of the high wall of the Capuchin
+convent to light a cigarette, and thereafter he went on unseeingly, in
+a brown study. Had he or had he not paid two soldi more than he should
+have done for the packet? A Calabrian would cheat, if possible, of
+course.
+
+When, after much mental arithmetic, Vincenzo solved the problem to his
+own satisfaction the little scrap of bad tobacco in its paper lining
+was smoked out. He looked at his watch, a Christmas present from Jean,
+and seeing that it was past the hour he began to wonder. There were no
+ghosts, and in any case they were not dangerous in broad daylight.
+There were no ghosts, but what was the signorino doing all this while
+in an empty house? The car was there, drawn up at the side of the road
+under the trees, and Vincenzo fussed round it, pulling the tarpaulin
+covers more over the seats; he had them in place when it occurred to
+him to look underneath for the fur rug. It was not there.
+
+"_Dio mio!_" he cried excitedly. "It has been stolen."
+
+Someone passing by must have seen it and taken it, probably someone
+with a cart, as it would be heavy to carry. The thief could not have
+gone far, and Vincenzo thought that if he drove the car towards Castel
+Gandolfo he might catch him, whoever he was--charcoal-burner from the
+woods beyond Rocca di Papa, peasant carting barrels of Frascati wine,
+or perhaps a _frate_ from the convent. However, he dared not attempt
+it as the signorino had said "Wait."
+
+After a few minutes of miserable uncertainty, during which he invoked
+the assistance of the saints--"_Che fare! Che fare! Santa Vergine,
+aiutatemi!_" he decided to go and find the signorino himself. He was
+half way down the lane when he heard shots. He had been hurrying, but
+he began to run then, and the last echo had not died away when he
+reached the gate of the Villino. It creaked on its hinges as he passed
+in, but no one in the house was listening for it now. He went in at
+the door, and now he was very swift and silent, very intent. There was
+a smell of powder in the passage, and someone was moving about in the
+room beyond. Vincenzo felt for the long sharp knife in his hip pocket
+before he softly turned the handle of the door.
+
+"Signore! What has happened?"
+
+Filippo Tor di Rocca started violently and uttered a sort of cry as he
+turned to see the man who stood on the threshold staring at him. There
+was a queer silence before he spoke, moistening his lips at almost
+every word.
+
+"I--I--you heard shots, I suppose."
+
+The servant's quick eyes noted the recent disorder of the room: chairs
+overturned, white splinters of plaster fallen from the ceiling, a
+mirror broken. Into what trap had his master fallen? What was there
+hidden behind the table--on the floor? There were scrabbled
+finger-marks--red marks--in the dust.
+
+"I was here with a lady whom I wished to take this house when a man
+burst in upon us. He shot her, and tried to shoot me, and I drew upon
+him in self-defence." The Prince spoke haltingly. He had not been
+prepared to lie so soon.
+
+"What are you doing with that cushion?"
+
+Filippo looked down guiltily at the frilled thing he held. "I was
+going to put it under her head," he began, but the other was not
+listening. He had come forward into the room and he had seen. The
+huddled heap of black and grey close at the Prince's feet was human--a
+woman--and he knew the young pale face, veiled as it was in brown,
+loosened hair threaded with gold. A woman; and the man who lay there
+too, his dark head resting on her breast, his lips laid against her
+throat, was his master, Jean Avenel.
+
+He uttered a hoarse cry of rage. "Murderer! You did it!"
+
+But Tor di Rocca had recovered himself somewhat and the bold, hard
+face was a mask through which the red eyes gleamed wickedly. "Fool!"
+he answered impatiently. "It was as I said. The man was mad with
+jealousy. There is his pistol on the floor. I am going now to inform
+the authorities and to fetch the _carabinieri_."
+
+He went out, and Vincenzo did not try to prevent him.
+
+"Signorino! signorino! answer me. _Madonna benedetta!_ What shall I
+say to Ser 'Ilario?" The little man's face worked, and tears ran down
+his cheeks as he knelt there at his master's side, stooping to feel
+for the fluttering of the faint breath, the beating of the pulse of
+life. Surely there was no mortal wound--the shoulder--yes; and the
+side, and the right arm, since all the sleeve was soaked in warm
+blood.
+
+All those who have been dragged down into the great darkness that
+shrouds the gate of Death know that the first sense vouchsafed to
+the returning soul is that of hearing. There was a sound of the sea
+in Jean's ears, a weary sound of wailing and distress, through which
+words came presently by ones and twos and threes. Words that seemed
+a long way off, and yet near, as though they were stones dropped
+upon him from a great height: ... signorina ... not mortal ...
+healed ... care ... twenty masses to the Madonna at the _Santissima
+Annunziata_ ...
+
+Sight came next as the sea that had roared about him seemed to ebb,
+leaving him still on the shore of this world. He opened his eyes and
+lay for a moment staring up at the white ceiling until full
+consciousness returned, and with it the sharp, stabbing pain of his
+wounds, the acrid taste of blood in his mouth, the remembrance of
+love. Olive.... Had he not tried to reach her and failed? He groaned
+as he turned his aching head now on the pillow to see her where she
+lay.
+
+Vincenzo had cared for his master, had slit up that red, wet sleeve
+with his sharp knife, and had bandaged the torn flesh as well as he
+was able; and now, very gently, but without any skill, he was fumbling
+at the girl's breast.
+
+Jean made an effort to speak but his lips made no intelligible sounds
+at first. The servant came running to him joyfully nevertheless.
+"Signorino! You are better?"
+
+The kind brown eyes smiled through the dimness of their pain.
+
+"Good Vincenzo ... well done. She ... she's not dead?"
+
+"Oh, no, signorino--at least--I am not sure," the man faltered.
+
+"The wound is near the heart, is it not? Lay her down here beside me
+and I will keep it closed with my hand," Jean said faintly. "Lift her
+and lay her down here in the hollow of my unhurt arm."
+
+"No ... no!" she had cried. "Together." No other man should touch
+her--if she died it must be in his arms. How still she was, how little
+warmth of life was there to cherish, how small a fluttering of the
+dear heart under his hand's pressure....
+
+"Go now and get help."
+
+Vincenzo made no answer, but his eyes were like those of a faithful
+dog, anguished, appealing, and he knelt to kiss the poor fingers that
+had been bruised under that cruel heel before he went out of the room.
+
+Very softly he closed and locked the door, and then stood for a while
+in the close darkness of the passage, listening. That devil--he wanted
+them to die--suppose he should be lurking somewhere about the house,
+waiting for the servant to go that he might finish his work.
+
+The Tor di Rocca were hard and swift and cruel as steel. That Duchess
+Veronica, who had brought her husband the other woman's severed head,
+wrapped in fine linen of her own weaving, as a New Year's gift!--she
+had been one of them. Then there had lived one Filippo who kept his
+younger brother chained up to the wall of some inner room of his
+Florentine palace for seventeen years, until, at last, a serving-man
+dared to go and tell of the sound of blows in the night hours, the
+moaning, the clank of a chain, and the people broke in, and hanged the
+Prince from the wrought-iron _fanale_ outside his own gate.
+
+Vincenzo knew of all these old, past horrors; the Florentines had
+made ballads of them, and sang them in the streets, and one might buy
+"_L'Assassina_," or "_Il Fratello del Principe_," printed on little
+sheets of coarse paper, on the stalls in the Mercato, for one soldo.
+So, though the house was very still, the little man drew his long
+knife and read the motto scratched on the blade before he climbed the
+stairs.
+
+"_Non ti fidar a me se il cor ti manca._"
+
+Hurriedly he passed through every room, but there was no one there,
+and so he ran out into the dripping green wilderness of torn leaves
+and storm-tossed, drenched blossoms, and up the lane, between the high
+walls of the olive orchards, to the town.
+
+Don Filippo was really gone, and he was waiting now on the platform of
+the Albano station for the train that should take him back to Rome. He
+was not, however, presenting the spectacle of the murderer fleeing
+from his crime. He was quite calm. The heat and cruelty of the Tor di
+Rocca blood flared in him, but it burned with no steady flame. He had
+not the tenacity of his forefathers; and so, though he might kill his
+brother, he would not care to torment him during long years. Hate
+palled on him as quickly as love. He was content to leave the lives of
+Jean Avenel and of Olive on the knees of the gods.
+
+There was no pity, no tenderness in him to be stirred by the
+remembrance of blue eyes dilated with fear, of loosened brown hair, of
+the small thing that had lain in a huddled heap at his feet, and he
+was not afraid of any consequences affecting him. In Italy the plea of
+jealousy covers a multitude of sins, and he was sure that a jury would
+acquit him if he were charged with murder.
+
+How many hundred years had passed since Pilate had called for water to
+wash his hands! Filippo--reminded in some way of the Roman
+governor--felt that same need. His hands were not clean--there was
+dust on them--and it seemed that the one thing that really might clog
+his thoughts and tarnish them later on was the dust on a frilled
+cushion.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+To some men their world is most precious when their arms may compass
+it. These are the great lovers. It seemed to Jean now that it mattered
+little whether this grey hour of rain and silence preluded life or
+death. Presently they would come to the edge of the stream called
+Lethe, and then he, making a cup of his hands, would give the woman he
+loved to drink of the waters of forgetfulness, and all remembrance of
+loneliness and tears, and of the pain that ached now in his side and
+in her shot breast would pass away.
+
+He looked down from a great height and saw:
+
+               "_the curled moon
+    Was like a little feather
+    Fluttering far down the gulf;_"
+
+and the round world, a caught fly, wrapped in a web of clouds, hung by
+a slender thread of some huge spider's spinning. There was a dark mark
+upon it that spread and reddened until it seemed to be a stain of
+blood on a woman's breast. She had been pale, but the colour had come
+again when he had kissed her. It was gone now. Was it all in the red
+that oozed between his fingers?
+
+In the twilight of his senses stray thoughts fluttered and passed like
+white moths. Was that the roar of voices? The hall was full and they
+wanted him, but he could not play again. Love was best. He would stay
+in the garden with Olive.
+
+What were they asking for? A nocturne--yes; it was getting dark, and
+the sea was rising--that was the sound of the sea.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The doctor Vincenzo had brought in rose from his knees and stood
+thoughtfully wiping his hands on a piece of lint.
+
+"We must see about extracting the bullets later on. One went clean
+through his arm and so has saved us the trouble. As to her--I am not
+sure--but I think the injury may not be so serious as it now appears.
+She was evidently stunned. She must have struck her head against the
+table in falling."
+
+"Can they be moved?" the servant asked anxiously. "My master would not
+care to stay on here. Can you take them into your house, and--and not
+say anything?"
+
+The doctor hesitated. He was a bald, grey-whiskered man, fat and
+flaccid. His cuffs were frayed and there were wine-stains on his
+shabby clothes. He was very poor.
+
+"I should inform the authorities," he said.
+
+"Oh, I don't think that is necessary. It would be worth your while
+not to."
+
+Jean's fur coat had been thrown across a chair. The doctor eyed it
+carefully. It was worth more lire than he had ever possessed at one
+time.
+
+"Very well," he said. "The vineyard across the lane is mine. We can go
+to my house that way and take them through the gate without ever
+coming out on to the road. I will go and tell my housekeeper to get
+the rooms ready."
+
+Vincenzo's face brightened. "I will go in the car to-night to fetch
+the master's brother. He is very rich. It will be worth your while,"
+he repeated.
+
+"He will be heavy to carry. Shall we be able to do it alone?"
+
+"_Via!_" cried the little man. "I am very strong. Go now and come back
+soon."
+
+When the other had left the room he crouched down again on the floor
+at Jean's feet. "Signorino! Signorino! Speak to me! Look at me!"
+
+But there was no voice now, nor any that answered.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+For a long while, it seemed, Jean was a spent swimmer, struggling to
+reach a distant shore. The cruel cross-currents drew him, great waves
+buffeted him, and the worst of it was they were hot. All the sea was
+bubbling and boiling about him, and the sound in his ears was like
+the roar of steam. There were creatures in the water, too; octopi,
+such as he had seen caught in nets by the Venetian fishermen and flung
+on the yellow sands of the Lido. He saw their tentacles flickering in
+the green curled edges of each wave that threatened to beat him down
+into the depths.
+
+Vincenzo kept them off. He was always there, sitting by the door, and
+when he was called he came running to his master's bedside.
+
+"Where is she? Don't let her be drowned! Don't let the octopi get her!
+Vincenzo! Vincenzo!" he cried, and the good fellow tried to reassure
+him.
+
+"_Sia benedetto_, signorino! They shall not have her. I will cut them
+in pieces with my knife."
+
+"What is the matter? I am quite well. Is it only the tyre? There is
+Orvieto, and the sun just risen. Is it still raining?"
+
+"No, signorino. The sun shines and it has not rained for days. It will
+soon be May."
+
+Very slowly the tide of feverish dreams ebbed, and Jean became aware
+of the iris pattern on the curtains of the bed; of the ray of sunlight
+that danced every morning on the ceiling and passed away; of the old
+woman who gave him his medicine. She was kind, and he liked to see her
+sitting sewing by lamplight, and to watch her distorted shadow
+looming gigantic in an angle of the wall. Hilaire was there too, but
+sometimes he was called away, and then Jean would hear his uneven step
+going to and fro across an uncarpeted floor, and the sound of hushed
+voices in the next room.
+
+"Hilaire, is--is it all right?"
+
+"Yes, do not be afraid. Get well," the elder man answered, but Jean
+still lay with his face turned to the wall. He was afraid. The longing
+to see Olive, to hold her once more in his arms, burned within him. He
+moved restlessly and laid his clenched hands together on the
+half-healed wound in his side.
+
+One night he slept soundly, dreamlessly, as a child sleeps, and woke
+at dawn. He raised himself on his elbow in the bed and looked about
+him, and Vincenzo came to him at once and asked him what he wanted.
+
+"Go out," he said, "and leave me alone for a while."
+
+The green painted window-shutter was unfastened, and it swung open in
+the little wind that had sprung up. Jean saw the morning star shining,
+and the widening rift of pale gold in the grey sky above the hills. He
+heard the stirring of awakened life. Birds fluttered in the laurels. A
+boy was singing as he went to his work among the vines by the lake
+side:
+
+    "_Ho da dirti tante cose._"
+
+It seemed to Jean that he too had many things to say to the woman he
+loved. He called to her faintly, in a weak, hoarse voice: "Olive!"
+
+After a while he heard her answering him from the next room.
+
+"Jean! Oh, Jean!"
+
+He lay still, smiling.
+
+
+
+           EDINBURGH
+    COLSTON AND CO. LIMITED
+           PRINTERS
+
+
+
+
+THE BLUE LAGOON
+
+By =H. DE VERE STACPOOLE=,
+
+Author of "The Crimson Azaleas," etc. 6s.
+
+    The _Times_ says: "Picturesque and original ... full of
+    air and light and motion."
+
+    The _Daily Telegraph_ says: "A hauntingly beautiful
+    story."
+
+    The _Globe_ says: "Weirdly imaginative, remote, and
+    fateful."
+
+    The _Evening Standard_ says: "A masterpiece.... It has
+    the gift of the most vivid description that makes a
+    scene live before your eyes."
+
+    The _Sunday Times_ says: "A very lovely and fascinating
+    tale, by the side of which 'Paul and Virginia' seems
+    tame indeed."
+
+    The _Morning Leader_ says: "It is a true romance, with
+    an atmosphere of true romance which few but the greatest
+    writers achieve."
+
+    The _World_ says: "Original and fascinating."
+
+    The _Nottingham Guardian_ says: "A singularly powerful
+    and brilliantly imagined story."
+
+    The _Daily Chronicle_ says: "Many able authors, an
+    unaccountable number, have written about the South Sea
+    Islands, but none that we know has written so charmingly
+    as Mr. de Vere Stacpoole in 'The Blue Lagoon.'"
+
+
+T. FISHER UNWIN, 1 ADELPHI TERRACE, LONDON
+
+
+
+
+T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher,
+
+WORKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD
+
+
+I.
+
+AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS
+
+_Crown 8vo._, _cloth_, =6s.=
+
+"Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (_vide_ first part of
+notice), 'An Outcast of the Islands' is perhaps the finest piece of
+fiction that has been published this year, as 'Almayer's Folly' was
+one of the finest that was published in 1895.... Surely this is real
+romance--the romance that is real. Space forbids anything but the
+merest recapitulation of the other living realities of Mr. Conrad's
+invention--of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer, the one-eyed
+Babalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla--all novel, all
+authentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad's quality. He
+imagines his scenes and their sequence like a master; he knows his
+individualities and their hearts; he has a new and wonderful field in
+this East Indian Novel of his.... Greatness is deliberately written;
+the present writer has read and re-read his two books, and after
+putting this review aside for some days to consider the discretion of
+it, the word still stands."--_Saturday Review_
+
+
+II.
+
+ALMAYER'S FOLLY
+
+_Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._, _cloth_, =6s.=
+
+    "This startling, unique, splendid book."
+
+                    Mr. T. P. O'CONNOR, M.P.
+
+"This is a decidedly powerful story of an uncommon type, and breaks
+fresh ground in fiction.... All the leading characters in the
+book--Almayer, his wife, his daughter, and Dain, the daughter's native
+lover--are well drawn, and the parting between father and daughter has
+a pathetic naturalness about it, unspoiled by straining after effect.
+There are, too, some admirably graphic passages in the book. The
+approach of a monsoon is most effectively described.... The name of
+Mr. Joseph Conrad is new to us, but it appears to us as if he might
+become the Kipling of the Malay Archipelago."--_Spectator_
+
+
+
+
+THE BEETLE. A MYSTERY
+
+By =RICHARD MARSH=. Illustrated.
+
+Eleventh Edition. 6s.
+
+    The _Daily Graphic_ says: "'The Beetle' is the kind of
+    book which you put down only for the purpose of turning
+    up the gas and making sure that no person or thing is
+    standing behind your chair, and it is a book which no
+    one will put down until finished except for the reason
+    above described."
+
+    The _Speaker_ says: "A story of the most terrific kind
+    is duly recorded in this extremely powerful book. The
+    skill with which its fantastic horrors are presented to
+    us is undeniable."
+
+
+T. FISHER UNWIN, 1 ADELPHI TERRACE, LONDON
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note
+
+Bold text is indicated with equals symbols, =like this=.
+
+Text in languages other than English is preserved as printed.
+
+Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.
+
+The following amendments have been made:
+
+    Page 164--Jocopo amended to Jacopo--"... one of the old
+    houses in the Borgo San Jacopo, ..."
+
+    Page 197--mysogynists amended to misogynists--"Olive
+    laughed. "Commend me to misogynists henceforth.""
+
+    Page 216--newsvenders amended to newsvendors--"... and
+    the narrow streets were echoing now to the hoarse cries
+    of the newsvendors ..."
+
+    Page 228--Babbuino amended to Babuino--"They went by way
+    of the Via Babuino across the Piazza di Spagna, ..."
+
+    Page 293--anyrate amended to any rate--"... I am sure he
+    never would, or, at any rate, he would ..."
+
+    Page 297--it's amended to its--"... its gnawing,
+    tearing, animal ferocity was appalling."
+
+    Second advert page--decidely amended to decidedly--"This
+    is a decidedly powerful story ..."
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive in Italy, by Moray Dalton
+
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+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of Olive in Italy, by Moray Dalton.
+    </title>
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive in Italy, by Moray Dalton
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Olive in Italy
+
+Author: Moray Dalton
+
+Release Date: July 25, 2009 [EBook #29512]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVE IN ITALY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Mark C. Orton, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="figcenter padtop padbase" style="width: 398px;">
+<img src="images/olive01.jpg" width="398" height="600"
+alt="Front cover of book" />
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<table class="tpage" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0" width="40%" summary="title page">
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdbb">
+<h1 class="smlpadt smlpadb">OLIVE ...<br />
+IN ITALY</h1>
+    </td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="byline">By MORAY DALTON</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdbb">
+<div class="figcenter lrgpadt lrgpadb" style="width: 350px;">
+<img src="images/olive02.jpg" width="350" height="125"
+alt="Decoration" />
+</div>
+    </td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="center lrgfont smlpadt smlpadb">
+London<br />
+<b>T. FISHER UNWIN</b><br />
+MCMIX
+    </td>
+  </tr>
+</table>
+
+
+
+<p class="center padtop padbase">[<i>All Rights Reserved</i>]</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<div class="oquote">
+<p>&ldquo;For in the hand of the Lord there is a cup,
+and the wine is red; it is full mixed, and He
+poureth out of the same. As for the dregs
+thereof: all the ungodly of the earth shall drink
+them....&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[xv]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" width="30%" summary="Table of contents">
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">BOOK I.</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdrb" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdlsc">Siena</td>
+    <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">BOOK II.</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdlsc">Florence</td>
+    <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdc" colspan="2">BOOK III.</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdlsc">Rome</td>
+    <td class="tdrb"><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td>
+  </tr>
+</table>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span></p>
+
+<h1 class="padtop">OLIVE IN ITALY</h1>
+
+
+
+<h2 class="padtop">BOOK I.&mdash;SIENA</h2>
+
+
+
+<h3 class="padtop">CHAPTER I</h3>
+
+
+<p>&ldquo;I believe that Olive Agar is going to tell
+you that she can&rsquo;t pay her bill,&rdquo; said the landlady&rsquo;s
+daughter as she set the breakfast tray
+down on the kitchen table.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Good gracious, Gwen, how you do startle
+one! Why?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She began again about the toast, and I
+told her straight that you always set yourself
+against any unnecessary cooking. Meat and
+vegetables must be done, I said, but those
+who can&rsquo;t relish bread as it comes from the
+baker&rsquo;s, and plain boiled potatoes, can go
+without, I said. Then she says, of course
+I must do as my mother tells me, and would I
+ask you to step up and see her presently.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Perhaps you were a bit too sharp with
+her.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The girl sniffed resentfully. &ldquo;Good riddance
+if she goes,&rdquo; she called after her mother.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Simons knocked perfunctorily at the
+dining-room door.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>
+A young voice bade her come in. &ldquo;I
+wanted to tell you that I heard from my
+cousins in Italy this morning. I am going to
+stay with them for a little, so I shall be leaving
+you at the end of the week.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The landlady&rsquo;s cold stare was disconcerting.
+There was a distinct note of disapproval in her
+voice as she answered, &ldquo;I do not know much
+about Italy.&rdquo; She seemed to think it not
+quite a seemly subject, yet she pursued it.
+&ldquo;I should have thought it was better for a
+young lady without parents or friends to find
+some occupation in her own country.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive smiled. &ldquo;Ah, but I hate boiled
+potatoes, and I think I shall love Italy and
+Italian cooking. You remember the Athenians
+who were always seeking some new thing?
+They had a good time, Mrs Simons.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I hope you may not live to wish those
+words unsaid, miss,&rdquo; the woman answered
+primly. &ldquo;You have as good as sold your
+birthright, as Esau did, in that speech.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He was much nicer than Jacob.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, miss, how can you! But, after all, I
+suppose you are not altogether one of us since
+you have foreign cousins. What&rsquo;s bred in
+the bone comes out in the flesh they say.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am quite English, if that is what you
+mean. My aunt married an Italian.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Simons&rsquo;s eyes had wandered from the girl&rsquo;s
+face to the heavy chandelier tied up in yellow
+muslin, and thence, by way of &ldquo;Bubbles,&rdquo;
+framed in tarnished gilt, to the door. &ldquo;Ah,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
+well, I shall take your notice,&rdquo; she said
+finally.</p>
+
+<p>She went down again into the kitchen. &ldquo;I
+never know where to have her,&rdquo; she complained.
+&ldquo;There&rsquo;s something queer and
+foreign about her for all she says. What&rsquo;s
+bred in the bone! I said that to her face, and
+I repeat it to you, Gwendolen.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Simons might have added that adventures
+are to the adventurous. Olive&rsquo;s father
+was Jack Agar, of the Agars of Lyme, and he
+married his cousin. If Mrs Simons had known
+all that must be implied in this statement she
+might have held forth at some length on the
+subject of heredity, and have traced the girl&rsquo;s
+dislike of boiled potatoes to her great-great-uncle&rsquo;s
+friendship with Lord Byron, and her
+longing for sunshine to a still more remote
+ancestress, lady-in-waiting to a princess at the
+court of Le Roi Soleil.</p>
+
+<p>Adventures to the adventurous! The
+Agars were always aware of the magnificent
+possibilities of life and love, and inclined to
+ignore the unpleasant actualities of existence
+and the married state; hence some remarkable
+histories, and, in the end, ruin. Olive was
+the last of the old name. Jack Agar had died
+at thirty, leaving his wife and child totally
+unprovided for but for the little annuity that
+had sufficed for dress in the far-off salad days,
+and that now must be made to maintain them.
+Olive was sent to a cheap boarding-school,
+where she proved herself a fool at arithmetic;
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
+history, very good; conduct, fair; according
+to her reports. She was not happy there.
+She hated muddy walks and ink-stained
+desks and plain dumpling, and all these things
+seemed to be an essential part of life at Miss
+Blake&rsquo;s.</p>
+
+<p>She left at eighteen, and thereafter she and
+her mother lived together in lodgings at
+various seaside resorts within their means,
+practising a strict economy, improving their
+minds at the free library, doing their own dressmaking,
+and keeping body and soul together
+on potted meats, cocoa and patent cereals.
+Mary Agar rebelled sometimes in secret,
+regretting the lack of &ldquo;opportunities,&rdquo; <i>i.e.</i>,
+of possible husbands. She would have been
+glad to see her daughter settled. The Agars
+never used commonsense in affairs of the
+heart. Her own marriage had been very
+foolish from a worldly point of view, and her
+sister Alice had run away with her music-master.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;In those days girls had a governess at
+home and finished with masters, and young
+Signor Menotti came twice a week to our
+house in Russell Square to teach Alice the
+guitar and mandoline. We shared singing
+and French lessons, but she had him to herself.
+He was very good-looking, dark, and rather
+haggard, and just shabby enough to make one
+sorry for him. When Alice said she would
+marry him mamma was furious, but she was just
+of age, and she had a little money of her own,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
+an annuity as I have, and she went her own
+way. They were married at a registry office,
+I think, and soon afterwards they went to his
+home in Italy. Mamma never forgave, but
+Alice and I used to write to each other, and
+her eldest child was called after me. I don&rsquo;t
+know how it turned out. She never said she
+was unhappy, but she died after eight years,
+leaving her three little girls to be brought up
+by their father&rsquo;s sister.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive knew little more than this of her aunt.
+Further questioning elicited the fact that
+Signor Menotti&rsquo;s name was Ernesto.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The girls are your cousins, Olive dear,
+and you have no other relations. I should like
+to see them.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So should I.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive knew all about the annuity, but she
+had not realised until her mother died quite
+suddenly, of heart failure after influenza, what
+it means to have no money at all. She was
+dazed with grief at first, and Mrs Simons was
+as kind as could be expected and did not thrust
+the weekly bill upon her on the morning after
+the funeral, though it was due on that day.
+But lodgers are not supposed to give much
+trouble, and though death is not quite so
+heinous as infectious disease or ink spilt on the
+carpet it is still distinctly not a thing to be
+encouraged by too great a display of sympathy,
+and Olive was soon made to understand that it
+behoved her to seek some means of livelihood,
+some way out into the world.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
+No proverb is too hackneyed to be comforting
+at times, and the girl reminded herself
+that blood is thicker than water as she looked
+among her mother&rsquo;s papers for the Menotti
+address. They were her cousins, birds of a
+feather. She wrote them a queer, shy, charming
+letter in strange Italian, laboriously learnt
+out of a grammar, and then&mdash;since some days
+must elapse before she could get any answer&mdash;she
+conscientiously studied the advertisement
+columns of the papers. She might be a nursery
+governess if only she could be sure of herself
+at long division, or&mdash;horrid alternative&mdash;a
+useful help. Mrs Simons suggested a shop.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You have a nice appearance, miss.
+Perhaps you would do as one of the young
+ladies in the drapery department, beginning
+with the tapes and thread and ribbon counter,
+you know, and working your way up to the
+showroom.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But Olive altogether declined to be a young
+lady.</p>
+
+<p>She waited anxiously for her cousins&rsquo; letter,
+and it meant so much to her that when it came
+she was half afraid to open it.</p>
+
+<p>It was grotesquely addressed to the</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>Genteel Miss Agar Olive,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Marsden Street, 159,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Brighton,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Provincia di Sussex,</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 8em;">Inghilterra.</span></p>
+</div>
+
+<p>The post-mark was Siena. It was stamped
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
+on the flap, which was also decorated with a
+blue bird carrying a rose in its beak, and was
+rather strongly scented.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Dear Cousin</span>,&mdash;We were so pleased and
+interested to hear from you, though we
+greatly regret to have the news of our aunt&rsquo;s
+death. Our father&rsquo;s sister lives with us since
+we are orphans. She is a widow and has no
+children of her own. If you can pay us
+fifteen lire a week we shall be satisfied, and we
+will try to get you pupils for English. Kindly
+let us know the date and hour of your arrival.&mdash;Believe
+us, yours devotedly,</p>
+
+<p class="sig">&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Maria</span>, <span class="smcap">Gemma</span> and <span class="smcap">Carmela</span>.&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Olive read it carefully twice over, and then
+sat down at the table and began to scribble
+on the back of the envelope. She convinced
+herself that three times fifteen was forty-five,
+and that so many lire amounted to not quite
+two pounds. Then there was the fare out to
+be reckoned. Finally, she decided that she
+would be able to get out to Italy and to live
+there for three weeks before she need call
+herself penniless.</p>
+
+<p>She went to the window and stood for a
+while looking out. The houses opposite and
+all down the road were exactly alike, all
+featureless and grey, roofed with slate, three-storied,
+with basement kitchens. Nearly
+every one of them had &ldquo;Apartments&rdquo; in gilt
+letters on the fanlight over the front door.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
+It was raining. The pavements were wet and
+there was mud on the roadway. The woman
+who lived in the corner house was spring-cleaning.
+Olive saw her helping the servant
+to take down the curtains in the front room.
+Dust and tea-leaves and last year&rsquo;s cobwebs.
+It occurred to her that spring would bring a
+recurrence of these things only if she became a
+useful help, as she must if she stayed in
+England and earned her living as best she could&mdash;only
+these and nothing more. The idea was
+horrible and she shuddered at it. &ldquo;I shall
+go,&rdquo; she said aloud. &ldquo;I shall go.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER II</h3>
+
+
+<p>Olive, advised by a clerk in Cook&rsquo;s office,
+had taken a through ticket to Siena, third
+class to Dover, first on the boat, second in
+France and Italy. She got to Victoria in
+good time, had her luggage labelled, secured
+a corner seat, and, having twenty minutes to
+spare, strolled round the bookstall, eyeing the
+illustrated weeklies and the cheap reprints.
+The blue and gold of a shilling edition of Keats
+lay ready to her hand and she picked it up
+and opened it.</p>
+
+<p>The girl, true lover of all beauty, flushed
+with pleasure at the dear, familiar word music,
+the sound of Arcadian pipes heard faintly
+for a moment above the harsh roar of London.
+For her the dead poet&rsquo;s voice rose clearly
+through the clamour of the living; it was like
+the silver wailing of a violin in a blaring discord
+of brass instruments.</p>
+
+<p>She laid down the book reluctantly, and
+turning, met the eager eyes of the man who
+stood beside her. He had just bought an
+armful of current literature, and his business
+at the bookstall was evidently done, yet he
+lingered for an appreciable instant. He, too,
+was a lover of beauty, and in his heart he was
+saying, &ldquo;Oh, English rose!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
+He did not look English himself. He wore
+his black hair rather longer than is usual in
+this country, and there was a curiously vivid
+look, a suggestion of fire about him, which is
+conspicuously lacking in the average Briton,
+whose ambition it is to look as cool as possible.
+His face was thin and his eyes were deep set,
+like those of Julius C&aelig;sar&mdash;in fact, the girl
+was strongly reminded of the emperor&rsquo;s bust
+in the British Museum. He looked about
+thirty-five, but might have been older.</p>
+
+<p>All this Olive saw in the brief instant during
+which they stood there together and aware of
+each other. When he turned away she bought
+some magazines, without any great regard for
+their interest or suitability, and went to take
+her place in the third-class compartment she
+had selected.</p>
+
+<p>He would travel first, of course. She
+watched his leisurely progress along the
+platform, and noted that he was taller than
+any of the other men there, and better-looking.
+His thin, clean-shaven face compelled attention;
+she saw some women looking at him,
+and was pleased to observe that he did not
+even glance at them. Then people came hurrying
+up to the door of her compartment to say
+good-bye to some of her fellow-travellers, and
+she lost sight of him.</p>
+
+<p>The train started and passed through the
+arid wilderness of backyards that lies between
+each one of the London termini and the clean
+green country.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
+Olive fluttered the pages of her magazine,
+but she felt disinclined to read. She was
+pretty; her brown hair framed a rose-tinted
+face, her smile was charming, her blue eyes
+were gay and honest and kind. Men often
+looked at her, and it cannot be denied that the
+swift appraisement of masculine eyes, the
+momentary homage of a glance that said &ldquo;you
+are fair,&rdquo; meant something to her. Such
+tributes to her beauty were minor joys, to be
+classed with the pleasure to be derived from
+<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">marrons glac&eacute;s</i> or the scent of violets, but the
+remembrance of them did not often make her
+dream by day or bring a flush to her cheeks.</p>
+
+<p>She roused herself presently and began to
+look out of the window with the remorseful
+feeling of one who has been neglecting an old
+friend for an acquaintance. After all, this was
+England, where she was born and where her
+mother had died, and she was leaving it perhaps
+for ever. She tried to fix the varying
+aspects of the spring in her mind for future
+reference; the tender green of the young
+larches in the plantation, the pale gold of
+the primroses, and the flowering gorse close
+to the line, the square grey towers of the village
+churches, even the cold, pinched faces of the
+people waiting on the platforms of the little
+stations. Italy would be otherwise, and she
+might never see these familiar things again.</p>
+
+<p>When the train rushed out on to the pier
+at Dover she dared not look back at the white
+cliffs, but kept her eyes resolutely seaward.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
+The wind was high, and she heard that the
+crossing would be rough. C&aelig;sar was close
+behind her, and she caught a glimpse of him
+going aft as she made her way to the ladies&rsquo;
+cabin.</p>
+
+<p>She lay down on one of the red velvet
+divans in the stuffy saloon, and closed her
+eyes as she had been advised to do, and in ten
+minutes her misery was complete.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If you are going to be ill nothing will stop
+you,&rdquo; observed the sympathetic stewardess.
+&ldquo;It is like Monte Carlo. Most people have a
+system, and sometimes they win, but they are
+bound to lose in the end. Champagne, munching
+biscuits, patent medicines, lying down as
+you are now. It is all vanity and vexation of
+spirit, my dear.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive joined feebly in her laugh. &ldquo;I feel
+better now. Are we nearly there?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Just coming into harbour.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Thank heaven!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When Olive crawled up on deck her one idea,
+after her luggage, was to avoid anyone who
+had seemed to admire her. She could not
+bear that the man should see her green face,
+and she was grateful to him for keeping his
+distance in the crush to get off the boat, and
+for disappearing altogether in the station. A
+porter in a blue linen blouse piloted her to the
+waiting train, and she climbed into the compartment
+labelled &ldquo;Turin,&rdquo; and settled herself
+in a window seat.</p>
+
+<p>The country between Calais and Paris can
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
+only be described as flat, stale and unprofitable
+by a beauty lover panting for the light and
+glow and colour of the South, and Olive soon
+got a book out of her bag and began to read.
+Her only fellow-passenger, a middle-aged
+English lady with an indefinite face, spoke
+to her presently. &ldquo;You are reading a French
+novel?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, it is in Italian. <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">La Citt&agrave; Morta</i>, by
+Gabriele D&rsquo;Annunzio. I want to rub up my
+few words of the language.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Is he not a very terrible writer?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive was so tired of the disapproving note.
+&ldquo;He writes very well, and his descriptions are
+gorgeous. Of course he is horrid sometimes,
+but one can skip those parts.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive smiled. &ldquo;No, I do not,&rdquo; she said
+frankly, &ldquo;but I don&rsquo;t enjoy them. They
+make me tired of life.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Is not that rather a pity?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Perhaps; but you have to sift dirt to find
+diamonds, don&rsquo;t you? And this man says
+things that are worth tiaras sometimes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Surely there must be Italian authors who
+write books suitable for young people in a
+pretty style?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A pretty style? No doubt. But I don&rsquo;t
+read them.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The older woman sighed, and then smiled
+quite pleasantly. &ldquo;I suppose you are clever.
+One of my nieces is, and they find her rather a
+handful. Will you try one of my sandwiches?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
+Olive produced her biscuits and bananas,
+and they munched together in amity. After
+all, an aunt might be worse than stupid, and
+this one was quite good-natured, and so kind
+that her taste in literature might be excused.
+There were affectionate farewells at the Paris
+station, where she got out with all her accumulation
+of bags and bundles.</p>
+
+<p>The train rushed on through the woods
+of Fontainebleau and across wide plains intersected
+by poplar-fringed canals. As the
+evening mists rose lights began to twinkle in
+cottage windows, and in the villages the church
+bells were ringing the prayer to the Virgin.
+Olive had laid aside her book some time since,
+and now, wearying of the grey twilit world,
+she fell asleep.</p>
+
+<p>Jean Avenel, too, had watched the waning
+of the day from his place in a smoking first for
+a while, before he got up and began to prowl
+restlessly about the corridors. &ldquo;She will be
+so tired if she does not eat,&rdquo; he said to himself.
+&ldquo;They ought not to let a child like that travel
+alone. I wonder&mdash;&rdquo; He walked down the
+corridor again, but this time he looked into
+each compartment. He saw three Englishmen
+and an American playing whist, Germans
+eating, and French people sleeping, and at last
+he came upon his rose. A small man, mean-featured
+and scrubby-haired, was seated
+opposite to her, and his shining eyes were fixed
+upon her face. She had taken off her hat and
+was holding it on her lap, and Jean saw that
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
+she was clutching at it nervously, and that she
+was pale. He understood that it was probably
+her first experience of the Italian stare, deliberate,
+merciless, and indefinitely prolonged.
+She flushed as he came forward, and her eyes
+were eloquent as they met his. He sat down
+beside her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Please forgive me,&rdquo; he said quietly, &ldquo;but
+I can see this man is annoying you. Shall I
+glare him out of the place? I can.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, please do,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;He has
+frightened me so. He was talking before you
+came.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The culprit already looked disconcerted and
+rather foolish, and now, as Jean leant forward
+and seemed about to speak to him, he began
+to be frightened. He fidgeted, thrusting his
+hands in his pockets, looking out of the
+window, humming a tune. His ears grew red.
+He tried to meet the other man&rsquo;s level gaze
+and failed. He got up rather hurriedly. The
+brown eyes watched him slinking out before
+they allowed themselves a second sight of the
+rose.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Thank you so much,&rdquo; said Olive. &ldquo;I
+feel as if you had killed a spider for me, or
+an earwig. He was more like an earwig.
+He must have come in here while I was
+asleep.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A deported waiter going back to his native
+Naples, I imagine,&rdquo; Jean said. &ldquo;They ought
+not to have let you travel alone.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She smiled. &ldquo;I am a law unto myself.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
+&ldquo;That is a pity. Will you think me very
+impertinent if I confess that I have been
+watching over you&mdash;at a respectful distance&mdash;ever
+since we left Victoria? I do not approve
+of children wandering&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She tilted her pretty chin at him. &ldquo;Children!
+So you have made yourself into a sort of
+G.F.S. for me?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You know,&rdquo; he said gravely, &ldquo;we have
+a mutual friend.&rdquo; He drew a blue and gold
+volume from an inner pocket.</p>
+
+<p>Olive flushed scarlet, but she only said,
+&ldquo;Oh, Keats!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She looked at his hands as they turned the
+pages; they were clever and kind, she thought,
+and she wondered if he was an artist or a
+doctor. Those fingers might set a butterfly&rsquo;s
+wing, and yet they seemed very strong. She
+did not know she had sighed until he said,
+&ldquo;Am I boring you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; she answered eagerly. &ldquo;Please
+don&rsquo;t go yet unless you want to. But tell me
+why you bought that book?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If you could have seen yourself as I saw
+you, you would understand,&rdquo; he answered.
+&ldquo;I once saw a woman on my brother&rsquo;s estate
+pick up a piece of gold on the road. She had
+never had so much money without earning
+it in her life before, I suppose. At any rate
+she kissed it, and her face was radiant. She
+was old and ugly and worn by her long days of
+toil in the fields, and you&mdash;&nbsp;Well, in spite of
+the differences you reminded me of her, and I
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
+am curious to know which poem of Keats
+brought that swift, rapt light of joy.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It was &lsquo;White hawthorn and the pastoral
+eglantine&rsquo;&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean found the place and marked the
+passage before returning the book to his pocket.
+&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you will come with me and
+have some dinner.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER III</h3>
+
+
+<p>Many women are shepherded through all life&rsquo;s
+journeyings by their men&mdash;fathers, brothers,
+husbands&mdash;who look out their trains for them,
+put them in the care of guards, and shield
+them from all contact with sulky porters and
+extortionate cabmen. Olive, who had always
+to take her own ticket and fight her own and
+her mother&rsquo;s battles, now tasted the joys of
+irresponsibility with Avenel. He compounded
+with Customs officials, who bowed
+low before him, he took part in the midnight
+scramble for pillows at Modane, emerging
+from the crowd in triumph with no less
+than three of the coveted aids to repose under
+his arm, and he saw Olive comfortably settled
+in another compartment with two motherly
+German women, and there left her.</p>
+
+<p>At Turin he secured places in the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">diretto</i>
+to Florence, and sent his man to the buffet for
+coffee and rolls, and the two broke their fast
+together.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Italy and the joy of life,&rdquo; Olive said
+lightly, as she lifted her cup, and he looked at
+her with melancholy brown eyes that yet held
+the ghost of a smile.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The passing hour,&rdquo; he answered; adding
+prosaically, &ldquo;This is good coffee.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
+Referring to the grey silvery trees whose
+name she bore he assured her that he did not
+think she resembled them. &ldquo;They are old and
+you seem eternally young. You should have
+been called Primavera.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She laughed. &ldquo;Ah, if you had been my
+godfather&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I should not have cared to have held you in
+my arms when you were a bald-headed baby,&rdquo;
+he answered with perfect gravity.</p>
+
+<p>Apparently he always said what he thought,
+but his frankness was disconcerting, and Olive
+changed the subject.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Is Siena beautiful?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is a gem of the Renaissance, and you
+will love it as I do, I know, but I wish you
+could have seen Florence first. My brother
+has a villa at Settignano and I am going there
+now. The fruit trees in the orchard will be all
+white with blossom. You remember Romeo&rsquo;s
+April oath: &lsquo;By yonder moon that tips with
+silver all these fruit-tree tops&mdash;&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They lunched in the station restaurant at
+Genoa, and there he bought the girl a basket
+of fruit. &ldquo;A poor substitute for the tea you
+will be wanting presently,&rdquo; he explained.
+&ldquo;You have no tea-basket with you? You will
+want one if you are going to live with Italians.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I never thought of it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;May I send you one?&rdquo; he asked eagerly.
+&ldquo;Do let me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive flushed with pleasure. No one had
+been so kind to her since her mother died.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
+Evidently he liked her&mdash;oh! he liked her very
+much. She suddenly realised how much she
+would miss him when they parted at Florence
+and she had to go on alone. It had been so
+good to be with someone stronger than herself
+who would take care of her. He had seemed
+happy too, and she thought he looked younger
+now than he did when she first saw him standing
+by the bookstall at Victoria station.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is very good of you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I
+should like it. Thank you. I&mdash;I shall be
+sorry to say good-bye.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He met her wistful eyes gravely. &ldquo;I
+should like you to know that I shall never
+forget this day,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I shall never
+cease to be grateful to you for being so&mdash;for
+being what you are. My wife is different.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Your wife&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t live with her.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He took a card from his case presently and
+scribbled an address on it. &ldquo;I dare not hope
+that I shall ever hear from you again, but that
+is my name, and letters will always be forwarded
+to me from my brother&rsquo;s place. If
+ever I could do anything&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She faltered some word of thanks in an uncertain
+voice. She felt as if something had
+come upon her for which she was unprepared,
+some shadow of the world&rsquo;s pain, some flame
+of its fires that flickered at her heart for a
+moment and was gone. She was suddenly
+afraid, not of the brown eyes that were fixed
+so hungrily upon her face, but of herself. She
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
+could hear the beating of her own heart. The
+pity of it&mdash;the pity of it! He was so nice.
+Why could not they be friends&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>The night had fallen long since and they
+were nearing Florence.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t forget to change at Empoli,&rdquo; he
+said. &ldquo;I will send my man on as far as that
+to look after you. Will you let me kiss you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He came over and sat on the seat by her
+side. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid. I won&rsquo;t hurt you,&rdquo;
+he said gently, and then, seeing her pale, he
+drew back. &ldquo;No, I won&rsquo;t. It would not be
+fair. Oh, I beg your pardon! It will be
+enough for me to remember how good you
+were.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The train passed into the lighted station,
+and he stood up and took his hat and coat
+from the rack before he turned to her once
+more.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Good-bye.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3>
+
+
+<p>&ldquo;Has anyone seen our cousin?&rdquo; asked Gemma
+as she helped herself to <i>spaghetti</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Her aunt shrugged her fat shoulders. &ldquo;No!
+The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">donna di servizio</i> is mistress here, and she
+has ordained that the cousin shall not be disturbed.
+She has even locked the door, and
+she carries the key in her pocket.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is true,&rdquo; old Carolina said placidly.
+She was accustomed to join in the conversation
+at table when she chose, and Italian
+servants are allowed great freedom of speech.
+&ldquo;You were all in your beds when Giovanni
+Scampo drove her here in his cab this morning
+or you would have seen her then. The poor
+child is half dead with fatigue. Let her sleep,
+I say. There are veal cutlets to come,
+Signorina Maria; will you have more <i>spaghetti</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A little more.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The old woman shook her head. &ldquo;You
+eat too much.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Menotti lived in a small stuffy flat on
+the third floor of 25, Piazza Tolomei. It had
+the one advantage of being central, but was
+otherwise extremely inconvenient. The
+kitchen was hot and airless, and the servant
+had to sleep in a dark cupboard adjoining, in
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
+an atmosphere compounded of the scent of
+cheese, black beetles and old boots. There
+were four bedrooms besides, all opening on to
+the dining-room; and a tiny drawing-room,
+seldom used and never dusted, was filled to
+overflowing with gilt furniture and decorative
+fantasies in wool work.</p>
+
+<p>The Menotti did not entertain. They met
+their friends at church, or at the theatre, or in
+the Lizza gardens, where they walked every
+evening in the summer. No man had ever seen
+them other than well dressed, but in the house
+they wore loose white cotton jackets and old
+skirts. They were <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en d&eacute;shabill&eacute;</i> now, though
+their heads were elaborately dressed and their
+faces powdered, and Maria&rsquo;s waist was considerably
+larger than it appeared to be when she
+was socially &ldquo;visible.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I must breathe sometimes,&rdquo; she said.</p>
+
+<p>The three girls were inclined to stoutness,
+but Gemma drank vinegar and ate sparingly,
+and so had succeeded in keeping herself slim
+hitherto, though she was only three years
+younger than Maria, who was twenty-nine
+and looked forty.</p>
+
+<p>Carmela was podgy, but she might lace or
+not just as she pleased. No one would look
+at her in any case since her kind, good-humoured,
+silly face was marked with smallpox.</p>
+
+<p>Gemma was the pride of her aunt and the
+hope of the family. The girls were poor, and
+it is hard for such to find husbands, but she
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
+had recently become engaged to a young
+lawyer from Lucca, who had been staying with
+friends in Siena when he saw and fell in love
+with the girl whom the students at the University
+named the &ldquo;Odalisque.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Hers was the strange, boding loveliness of a
+pale orchid. She had no colour, but her
+curved lips were faintly pink, as were the
+palms of her soft, idle hands. &ldquo;I shall be
+glad when she is married,&rdquo; her aunt said
+often. &ldquo;It is very well for Maria or Carmela
+to go through the streets alone, but Gemma
+is otherwise, and I cannot be always running
+after her. Then her temper ... <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio mio!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Perhaps it is the vinegar,&rdquo; suggested
+Carolina rather spitefully.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No. She wants a husband.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When the dinner was over Signora Carosi
+went to her room to lie down, and her two
+elder nieces followed her example, but Carmela
+passed into the kitchen with Carolina.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You will let me see the cousin,&rdquo; she said,
+wheedling. &ldquo;Gemma thinks she will be ugly,
+with great teeth and a red face like the
+Englishwomen in the Asino, but I do not
+believe it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If the signorina is hoping for a miracle of
+plainness she will be unpleasantly surprised,&rdquo;
+said the old woman, and her shrivelled face was
+as mischievous as a monkey&rsquo;s as she drew the
+key of Olive&rsquo;s room from her pocket. &ldquo;I am
+going to take her some soup now, and you shall
+come with me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
+It is quite impossible to be retiring, or even
+modest, in the mid-Victorian sense, in flats.
+A bedroom cannot remain an inviolate sanctuary
+when it affords the only means of access
+to the bathroom or is a short cut to the
+kitchen. Olive had had some experience of
+suburban flats during holidays spent with
+school friends, and had suffered the familiarity
+that breeds weariness in such close quarters.
+As she woke now she was unpleasantly aware
+of strangers in the room.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Only a lover or a nurse may look at
+a woman while she sleeps without offence,&rdquo;
+she said drowsily. &ldquo;It is an unpardonable
+liberty in all other classes of the population.
+Are you swains, or sisters of mercy?&rdquo;
+She opened her eyes and met Carmela&rsquo;s puzzled
+stare with laughter. &ldquo;I was saying that when
+one is ill or in love one can endure many
+things,&rdquo; she explained in halting Italian.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; Carmela said uncomprehendingly,
+&ldquo;I am never ill, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">grazia a Dio</i>, but when Maria
+has an indigestion she is cross, and when
+Gemma is in love her temper is dreadful.
+Perhaps, being a foreigner, you are different.
+Are you tired?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, I am, rather, but go on talking to
+me. I am not sleepy.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Carmela, nothing loth, drew a chair to the
+bedside. &ldquo;You need not get up yet,&rdquo; she
+said comfortably. &ldquo;We always lie down
+after dinner until five, and later we go for a
+walk. You will see the Via Cavour full of
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
+people in the evening, officers and students,
+and mothers with daughters to be married,
+all walking up and down and looking at each
+other. Orazio Lucis first saw Gemma like
+that, and he followed us home, and then found
+out who we were and asked questions about us.
+Every day we saw him in the Piazza, smoking
+cigarettes, and waiting for us to go out that he
+might follow us, and Gemma would give him
+one look, and then cast down her eyes ...
+so!&rdquo; Carmela caricatured her sister&rsquo;s
+affectation of unconsciousness very successfully,
+and looked to Olive and Carolina for
+applause.</p>
+
+<p>The servant grinned appreciation. &ldquo;Yes,
+the signorina is very <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">civetta</i>. I, also, have
+seen her simpering when the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">avvocato</i> has been
+here, but she soon gets tired of him, and then
+her face is as God made it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive dressed herself leisurely when they
+had left her, and unpacked her clothes and her
+little store of books. Her cousins, coming to
+fetch her soon after six o&rsquo;clock, found her
+ready to go out, but so absorbed in a guide-book
+of Siena that she did not hear Maria&rsquo;s
+knock at the door.</p>
+
+<p>She had resolved that she would apply art
+and arch&aelig;ology as plasters to the wound life
+had given her already. She would stay her
+heart&rsquo;s hunger with moods and tenses, but
+not of the verb &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">amare</i>.&rdquo; Learning and
+teaching, she might make her mind lord of her
+emotions.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
+She came forward rather shyly to meet her
+cousins. The three together were somewhat
+overpowering, flounced and frilled alike, and
+highly scented. Maria and Carmela fat,
+pleasant and profuse; Gemma silent, with
+dark resentful eyes and scornful lips that never
+smiled at other women.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You will show me the best things?&rdquo;
+Olive said eagerly when they had all kissed
+her. &ldquo;I want to see the Duomo first, and
+then the Palazzo Vecchio&mdash;but that is only open
+in the mornings, is it? And this is the Piazza
+Tolomei, so the house where Pia lived must be
+quite near.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Gemma stared, but made no attempt to
+answer, and Maria looked confused.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am afraid you will find us all very stupid,
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cara</i>,&rdquo; said Carmela, apologetically. &ldquo;We
+only go to the Duomo to pray, and as to
+museums and picture-galleries&mdash;&nbsp;And perhaps
+I had better tell you now, at once,
+that we do not want to learn English. We
+have got you several lessons through friends,
+but Maria and Carmela say they will not
+fatigue themselves over a foreign language,
+and I&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; began Olive, &ldquo;I thought&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Gemma interrupted her. &ldquo;A thousand
+thanks,&rdquo; she said rudely. &ldquo;We are not
+school children; we read about Pia dei Tolomei
+years ago at the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Scuola Normale</i>, but we do
+not consider her an amusing subject of conversation
+now.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
+The rose in Olive&rsquo;s cheeks deepened. &ldquo;I
+shall soon learn to know your likes and dislikes,&rdquo;
+she said, &ldquo;and to understand your
+manners.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I hope so,&rdquo; answered Gemma as she left
+the room. Maria hurried after her, but the
+younger sister caught at Olive&rsquo;s hand.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You must not listen to Gemma. Come,
+we will walk together. Let her go on; she
+cannot forgive your nose for being straight.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER V</h3>
+
+
+<p>A large parcel addressed to Miss Agar was
+brought to the house a few weeks later. Olive
+was out giving a lesson when it came, and
+Gemma turned it over, examining the post-mark
+and the writing.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Shall I open it and see what is inside?
+She would never know.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Carmela was horrified. &ldquo;How can you
+think of such a thing!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Besides, it is sealed,&rdquo; added Maria.</p>
+
+<p>These two liked their cousin well enough,
+and when they wished to tease the Odalisque
+they called her &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carina</i>&rdquo; and praised her
+fresh prettiness. It was always so easy to
+make Gemma angry, and lately she had been
+more capricious and difficult than ever. Her
+sisters were continually trying to excuse
+her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She is so nervous,&rdquo; Maria said loyally,
+but her paraphrase availed nothing. Olive
+understood her cousin and disliked her extremely,
+though she accorded her a reluctant
+admiration.</p>
+
+<p>She came in now with her books&mdash;an English
+grammar and a volume of translations&mdash;under
+her arm, and seeing that Gemma was watching
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
+her, she took her parcel with a carefully expressionless
+phrase of thanks to Carmela,
+who was anxious to cut the string, and carried
+it into her room unopened. It was the tea-basket
+Jean Avenel had promised her. She
+read the enclosed note, however, before she
+looked at it.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>&ldquo;I am going to America and then to Russia.
+Do not quite forget me. If ever you need
+anything write to my brother, Hilaire Avenel,
+Villa Fiorelli, Settignano, near Florence, and
+he will serve you for my sake as he would for
+your own if he knew you. I think I have
+played better since I have known you, my
+rose. One must suffer much before one can
+express the divine sorrow of Chopin. I said
+I would not write, but some promises are made
+to be broken. Can you forgive me?</p>
+
+<p class="sig">&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Jean Avenel.</span>&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>America and Russia ... the divine sorrow
+of Chopin ... I have played better.... He
+was a pianist then, and surely a great one.
+Olive remembered the slender brown hands
+that had seemed to her so supple and so
+strong. But the name of Avenel was strange
+to her, and she was sure she had never
+seen it on posters, or in the papers and
+magazines that chronicle the doings of musical
+celebrities.</p>
+
+<p>She took the tea-things out of the basket
+one by one and looked at them with pleasure.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
+The sugar box and the caddy and the spoon
+were all of silver, and engraved with her initials,
+and the cup and saucer were painted with
+garlands of pale roses.</p>
+
+<p>Tears filled her eyes as she sat down at the
+little table in the window and began to write.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>&ldquo;You have sent me a tea equipage fit for
+an empress! It is perfect, and I do not know
+how to thank you. Yes. I forgive you for
+writing. Have I really helped you to play?
+I am so glad. You say Chopin, so I suppose
+it is the piano? I must tell you that I remember
+all the stories you told me of Siena,
+and they add to the interest of my days. I
+give English lessons, and am making enough
+money to keep myself, but in the intervals of
+grammar and &lsquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">I Promessi Sposi</i>&rsquo; (no less than
+three of my pupils are translating that interminable
+romance into so-called English) I
+study the architecture of the early Renaissance
+in the old narrow streets, and gaze upon
+Byzantine Madonnas in the churches. The
+Duomo is an archangel&rsquo;s dream, and I like to
+go there with my cousins and steep my soul
+in its beauty while they say their prayers and
+fan themselves. One of them is pretty and
+she hates me; the other two are stout and kind
+and empty-headed, and their aunt is nothing&mdash;a
+large, heavy nothing&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Olive laid down her pen. &ldquo;What will he
+think if I write him eight pages? That I want
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
+to begin a correspondence? I do, but he must
+not know it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She tore her letter up into small pieces
+and wrote two lines on a sheet of note-paper.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>&ldquo;Thank you very much for your kind
+present and for what you say. Of course I
+forgive you ... and I shall not forget.&mdash;Yours
+sincerely,</p>
+
+<p class="sig">&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Olive Agar</span>.&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>She went to the window and threw the torn
+scraps of the first letter out into the street,
+and then she sat down again and began to cry;
+not for long. Women who know how precious
+youth is understand that tears are an expensive
+luxury, and they are sparing of
+them accordingly. They suffer more in the
+stern repression of their emotions than do
+those who yield easily to grief, but they keep
+their eyelashes and their complexions.</p>
+
+<p>Olive bathed her eyes presently and smoked
+a cigarette to calm her nerves. She was
+going out that evening to dine with her
+favourite pupil and his mother, and she knew
+they would be distressed if she looked ill or
+sad.</p>
+
+<p>Aurelia de Sanctis had had troubles enough
+of her own. She had married a patriot, a man
+with a beautiful eager face and a body spent
+with disease, and a fever that never left him
+since the days when he lurked in the marshes
+of the Maremma, crouched in a tangle of wet
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
+reeds and rushes, and watching for the flash
+of steel in the sunshine.</p>
+
+<p>Austrian bayonets ... he raved of them in
+his dreams, and called upon the names of
+comrades who had rotted in prisons or died
+in exile. His young wife nursed him devotedly
+until he died, leaving her a widow at
+twenty-seven. She had a small pension from
+the Government, and she worked at dressmaking
+to eke it out.</p>
+
+<p>Her only child had grown up to be a hopeless
+invalid. He could not go to school, so he lay
+all day on the sofa by the window in the tiny
+sitting-room and helped his mother with her
+sewing. His poor little bony hands were very
+quick and dexterous.</p>
+
+<p>In the evenings he read everything he could
+get hold of, books and newspapers. The professors
+from the University, who came to see
+him and were kind to him for his father&rsquo;s sake,
+told each other that he was a genius and that
+his soul was eating up his frail body. They
+wondered, pitifully, what poor Signora Aurelia
+would do when&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>The mother was hopeful, however. &ldquo;He
+takes such an interest in everything that I
+think he must have a strong vitality though
+he seems delicate,&rdquo; she said.</p>
+
+<p>He had expressed a wish to learn English,
+and when Signora Aurelia first heard of Olive
+she wrote asking her to come and see her. The
+De Sancti lived a little way outside the Porta
+Romana, on the edge of the hill and outside the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
+town, and Maria advised her cousin not to go
+there.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is so far out on a hot dusty road, and
+you will grow as thin and dry as an old hen&rsquo;s
+drumstick if you walk so much. And I know
+the signora is poor and will not be able to pay
+well.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive went, nevertheless. Signora Aurelia
+herself opened the door to her and showed
+evident pleasure at seeing her. The poor
+woman had been beautiful, and now that she
+was worn by time and sorrow she still looked
+like a goddess, exiled to earth, and altogether
+shabby&mdash;a deity in reduced circumstances&mdash;but
+none the less divinely fair and kind. Her
+great love for her child had so moulded her
+that she seemed the very incarnation of
+motherhood. So might Ceres have appeared
+as she wandered forlornly in search of her lost
+Persephone, gentle, weary, her fineness a little
+blunted by her woes.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Are you the English signorina? Come
+in! My son will be so pleased,&rdquo; she said as
+she led the girl into the room where Astorre
+was working at embroidery.</p>
+
+<p>Olive saw a boy of seventeen sewing as he
+lay on the sofa. There were some books on
+the floor within his reach, and a glass of
+lemonade was set upon the window-sill, but he
+seemed quite absorbed in making fine stitches.
+He looked up, however, as they came in and
+smiled at his mother.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have nearly finished,&rdquo; he said.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Presently I shall read the sonnet, &lsquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Pace non
+trovo, e non ho da far guerra</i>,&rsquo; to refresh
+myself.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;This is the signorina who teaches English,
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">nino mio</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>His face lit up at once and he held out
+his hand. &ldquo;I have already studied the
+grammar, but the pronunciation ... ah!
+that will be hard to learn. Will you help me,
+signorina?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, indeed I will. We will read and talk
+together, and soon you will speak English
+better than I can Italian.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>As she spoke and smiled her heart ached to
+see the hollowness of his cheeks and the lines
+of pain about his young mouth. She guessed
+that his poor body was all twisted and deformed
+under the rug that covered it. Signora
+Aurelia took her out on to their little terrace
+garden before she left. Twenty miles and
+more of fair Tuscan earth lay at their feet,
+grey olive groves and green vineyards, and the
+hills beyond all shimmering in the first heat of
+spring. Olive exclaimed at the beauty of the
+world.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes. On summer evenings Astorre can
+lie here and watch what he calls the pageant
+of the skies. The poor child is so fond of
+colour. I know you will be very patient with
+him, signorina. He is so clever, but some
+days he is in pain, and then he gets tired and
+so cannot learn so well. You have kindly
+promised to come twice a week, but I must tell
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
+you that I am not rich&mdash;&rdquo; She looked at Olive
+wistfully.</p>
+
+<p>The girl dared not offer to teach Astorre for
+nothing. &ldquo;I can see your son will be a very
+good pupil,&rdquo; she said hastily. &ldquo;Would one
+lire the lesson suit you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; the signora said with evident
+relief. &ldquo;But are you sure that is enough?
+You must not sacrifice yourself, my dear&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It will be a pleasure to come,&rdquo; Olive said
+very sincerely.</p>
+
+<p>The acquaintance soon ripened into a
+triangular friendship. The signora grew to
+love the girl because she amused Astorre and
+was never obviously sorry for him, or too
+gentle with him, as were some of the well-meaning
+people who came to see the boy.
+&ldquo;An overflow of pity is like grease exuding,&rdquo;
+he said once. &ldquo;I hate it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was very old for his years. He had read
+everything apparently, and he discussed
+problems of life and death with the air of a
+man of forty. He had no illusions about
+himself. &ldquo;I shall die,&rdquo; he said once to Olive
+when his mother was not in the room. &ldquo;My
+father gave me a spirit that burns like Greek
+fire and a body like&mdash;like a spent shell.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The easy, desultory lessons were often prolonged,
+and then the girl stayed to dinner and
+played dominoes afterwards with him or with
+his mother until ten o&rsquo;clock, when old Carolina
+came to fetch her home. The withered little
+serving-woman was voluble, and always
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span>
+cheerfully ready to lighten the way with
+descriptions of the last moments of her
+children. She had had thirteen, and two were
+still surviving. &ldquo;One grows accustomed,
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">signorina mia</i>&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3>
+
+
+<p>&ldquo;You have been crying,&rdquo; Astorre said abruptly.</p>
+
+<p>Olive leant against the balustrade of the
+little terrace. She was watching the fireflies
+that sparkled in the dusk of the vineyards
+in the valley below. A breeze had risen
+from the sea at sunset, and it stirred the leaves
+of the climbing roses and brought a faint
+sound of convent bells far away. Some stars
+shone in the clear pale sky.</p>
+
+<p>Dinner had been cleared away, and Signora
+Aurelia had gone in to finish a white dress she
+was making for a bride. Olive had offered to
+help her. &ldquo;I would rather you amused yourself
+with Astorre. I can see you are tired,&rdquo;
+she had answered as she left them together.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You have been crying,&rdquo; the boy repeated
+insistently.</p>
+
+<p>She smiled at him then. &ldquo;May I not shed
+tears if I choose?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I must know why,&rdquo; he answered.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, a castle in Spain.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He looked at her searchingly. &ldquo;And a
+castellan?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes. I want a man, and I cannot have
+him. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ecco!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She did not expect him to take her seriously,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
+but he was often perversely inclined. &ldquo;Of
+course,&rdquo; he said in a matter-of-fact tone,
+&ldquo;all women want a man or men. Do you
+think I have been lying here all these years
+without finding that out? That need is the
+mainspring of life, the key to heaven, and the
+root of all evil. If&mdash;if I were different someone
+would want me&mdash;&rdquo; His voice broke.</p>
+
+<p>Olive looked away from him. &ldquo;How still
+the night is,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;The nightingales
+are singing in the woods below, Astorre. Do
+you hear them?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am not deaf,&rdquo; he answered in a muffled
+voice, &ldquo;I hear them. Will you hear me?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Watching her closely he saw that she shrank
+from him. &ldquo;Do not be afraid,&rdquo; he said
+gruffly. &ldquo;I am not going to be a fool. No
+man on earth is worth your tears. That is
+all I wanted to say.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, child, you are young for all your
+wisdom. I was not sorry for him but for
+myself.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Liar!&rdquo; he cried petulantly, and then
+caught at her hand. &ldquo;Forgive me! Come
+now and read me a sonnet of your Keats and
+then translate it to me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Obediently she stooped to pick up the book.
+The flame of the little lamp on the table at his
+side burned steadily.</p>
+
+<p>He lay with closed eyes and lips that moved,
+repeating the words after her. &ldquo;It is very
+good to listen to your voice while you are
+here with me alone under the stars,&rdquo; he said
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>
+presently. &ldquo;Tell me, does this man love
+you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She was silent.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Does he love you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I think he did, but perhaps he has forgotten
+me now.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I love you,&rdquo; the boy said deliberately.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I cannot come again if you talk like this,
+Astorre.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I shall never say it again,&rdquo; he answered,
+&ldquo;but I want you to remember that it is so,
+because it may comfort you. Such words
+never come amiss to women. They feed on
+the hunger of our hearts.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say that!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;It is true
+that I like you to be fond of me, and I love
+you. In the best way, Astorre&mdash;oh, do believe
+that it is the best way!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;With your soul, I suppose? Do you
+think I am an angel because I am a cripple?&rdquo;
+he asked bitterly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am sorry&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Poor little girl,&rdquo; he said more gently, &ldquo;I
+have hurt you instead of comforting you, as I
+meant to do. But how can I give what is not
+mine? How can I cry &lsquo;Peace,&rsquo; when there
+is no peace? You will suffer still when I am
+at rest.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The boy&rsquo;s mother put down her work
+presently and came out to them, and the three
+sat silently watching the moon rise beyond the
+hills. It was as though a veil had been withdrawn
+to show the glimmer of distant streams,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
+the white walls of peasant dwellings set among
+their vines, the belfry tower of an old Carthusian
+monastery belted in by tall dark
+cypresses, and the twisted shadows thrown by
+the gnarled trunks and outstanding roots of
+the olive trees.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;All blue and silver,&rdquo; cried the girl after a
+while. &ldquo;Thank God for Italy!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She has cost her children dear,&rdquo; the elder
+woman answered, sighing. &ldquo;Beyond that
+rampart of hills lies the Maremma, and
+swamps, marshes, forests are to be drained
+now, they say, and made profitable. You will
+see some peasants from over there in our
+streets at the time of the Palio. Poor souls!
+They are so lean and haggard and yellow that
+their bones seem to be piercing through their
+discoloured skins.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The Palio! I think Signor Lucis is
+coming to Siena to see it,&rdquo; Olive said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Is that the man your cousin Gemma is to
+marry?&rdquo; the dressmaker asked curiously.
+&ldquo;I had heard that she was engaged, but one
+hears so many things. Do you like her?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Not very much, but really I see very little
+of her. I am out all day teaching.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The door-bell clanged as the girl rose to go.
+&ldquo;That is Carolina come for her stray sheep,&rdquo;
+she said, smiling. &ldquo;They will not believe that
+I can come home by myself at night.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They are quite right. If your aunt&rsquo;s
+servant did not come for you I should take
+you back to the Piazza Tolomei myself.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
+&ldquo;You forget that I am English.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive never attempted to explain her code;
+she stated her nationality and went on her
+way. Her first pupils had all been young girls,
+but as it became known that she was really
+English her circle widened. The prior of a
+Dominican convent near San Giorgio, and two
+privates from a regiment of Lancers stationed
+in the Fortezza, came to her to be taught, and
+some of Astorre&rsquo;s friends, students at the
+University, were very anxious for lessons, and
+as the Menotti refused to have them in their
+house Olive had to hire a room to receive
+them.</p>
+
+<p>The aunt disapproved. &ldquo;It is not right,&rdquo;
+she said, and when Olive assured her that she
+could not afford to lose good pupils she shook
+her large head.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You will go your own way, I suppose, but
+do not bring your men here. I cannot have
+soldiers scratching up the carpet with their
+spurs, or monks dropping snuff on it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive&rsquo;s days were filled, and she, having no
+time for the self-tormentings of idle women,
+was content to be not quite unhappy. She
+needed love and could not rest without it, and
+she was at least partially satisfied. Astorre
+and his mother adored her, thought her perfect,
+held her dear. All her pupils seemed to like
+her, and some of the students brought her
+little gifts of flowers, and packets of chocolate
+and almond-rock that Maria ate for her. The
+prior gave her a plaster statuette of St
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
+Catherine. &ldquo;She was clever, and so are you,&rdquo;
+he said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Carmela, I am not really <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">antipatica</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What foolishness! No.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why does Gemma hate me then? No one
+else does, or if they do they hide it, but she
+looks daggers at me always.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Carmela had been invited to tea in her
+cousin&rsquo;s bedroom. The water did not boil
+yet, but her mouth was already full of cake.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What happened the other night when
+Gemma let you in?&rdquo; she mumbled.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Did she say anything to you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, but I am not blind or deaf. You have
+not spoken to each other since.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive lifted the kettle off the spirit lamp.
+&ldquo;You like it weak, I know.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, and three lumps of sugar. Tell me
+what happened, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cara</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, as I came up the stairs that night I
+noticed a strong scent of tobacco&mdash;good
+tobacco. Sienese boys smoke cheap cigarettes,
+and the older men get black Tuscan
+cigars, but this was different. It reminded me
+of&mdash;&nbsp;Oh, well, never mind. When I came
+to the first landing I felt sure there was someone
+standing close against the wall waiting
+for me to go by, and yet when I spoke no one
+answered. You know how dark it is on the
+stairs at night. I could not see anything, but
+I listened, and, Carmela, a watch was ticking
+quite near me, by my ear. I could not move
+for a moment, and then I heard Carolina
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
+calling&mdash;she was with me, you know, but she
+had gone up first&mdash;and I got up somehow.
+Gemma let us in. She said she had been
+asleep, and I noticed that her hair was all
+loose and tumbled. I told her I fancied there
+was someone lurking on the stairs, and she
+said it must have been the cat, but I knew from
+the way she said it that she was angry. She
+lit her candle and marched off into her own
+room without saying good-night, and I was
+sorry because I have always wanted to be
+friends with her. I thought I would try to say
+something about it, so I went to her door and
+knocked. She opened it directly. &lsquo;Go away,
+spy,&rsquo; she said very distinctly, and then I grew
+angry too. I laughed. &lsquo;So there was a man
+on the stairs,&rsquo; I said.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Carmela stirred her tea thoughtfully.
+&ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;How nice these spoons
+are. I wish you would tell me who gave
+them to you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She helped herself to another cake. &ldquo;Gemma
+is difficult, and we shall all be glad
+when September comes and she is safely
+married. She is lazy. You have seen us of
+a morning, cutting out, basting, stitching at
+her wedding clothes, while she sits with her
+hands folded. Are you coming out with us
+this evening?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Menotti strolled down to the Lizza
+nearly every day after the <i>siesta</i>, and Carmela
+often persuaded her cousin to accompany
+them. The gardens were set on an outlying
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
+spur of the hill on which the wolf&rsquo;s foster son,
+Remus, built the city that was to be fairer
+than Rome. The winter winds, coming
+swiftly from the sea, whipped the laurels into
+strange shapes, shook the brown seed pods
+from the bare boughs of the acacias, and froze
+the water that dripped from the Medicean
+balls on the old wall of the Fortezza. Even
+in summer a little breeze would spring up
+towards sunset, and the leaves that had
+hung heavy and flaccid on the trees in the
+blazing heat of noon would be stirred by it to
+some semblance of life, while the shadows
+lengthened, and the incessant maddening
+scream of the locusts died down into silence.
+The gardens were a favourite resort. As the
+church bells rang the Ave Maria the people
+came to them by Camollia and San Domenico,
+to see each other and to talk over the news of
+the day.</p>
+
+<p>Smart be-ribboned nurses carrying babies
+on white silk cushions tied with pink or blue
+rosettes, young married women with their
+children, stout mothers chaperoning the
+elaborate vivacity of their daughters, occupied
+seats near the bandstand, or lingered about
+the paths as they chattered and fanned themselves
+incessantly to the strains of the Intermezzo
+from <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Cavalleria Rusticana</i> or some
+march of Verdi&rsquo;s. A great gulf was fixed
+between the sexes on these occasions. The
+young men congregated about the base of
+Garibaldi&rsquo;s statue; more or less gilded youths
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
+devoted to &ldquo;le Sport,&rdquo; wearing black woollen
+jerseys and perforated cycling shoes, while
+lady-killers braved strangulation in four-inch
+collars. There were soldiers too, cavalry
+lieutenants, slender, erect, and very conscious
+of their charms, and dark-faced priests, who
+listened to the music carefully with their eyes
+fixed on the ground, as being in the crowd but
+not of it. Olive watched them all with
+mingled amusement and impatience. If only
+the boys would talk to their friends&rsquo; sisters
+instead of eyeing them furtively from afar;
+if only the girls would refrain from useless
+needlework and empty laughter. They
+talked incessantly and called every mortal&mdash;and
+immortal&mdash;thing <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carina</i>. Queen Margherita
+was <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carina</i>, and so was the new cross-stitch,
+and so was this blue-eyed Olive. Yes,
+they admitted her alien charm. She was
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">strana</i>, too, but they did not use that word
+when she was there or she would have rejoiced
+over such an enlargement of their
+vocabulary.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They are amiable,&rdquo; she told Astorre,
+&ldquo;but we have not one idea in common.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;can one woman ever praise
+another without that &lsquo;but&rsquo;? Do you think
+them pretty?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, but one does not notice them when
+Gemma is there.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That is the pale one, isn&rsquo;t it? I have
+heard of her from the students, and also from
+the professors of the University. One of my
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
+friends raves about her Greek profile and her
+straight black brows. He calls her his silent
+Sappho, but I fancy Odalisque is a better
+name for her. There is no brain or heart, is
+there?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; she answered uncertainly.
+&ldquo;She seldom speaks to anyone, never to me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She is jealous of you probably.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The heats of July tried the boy. He was
+not so well as he had been in the spring, and
+lately he had not been able to help his mother
+with her needlework. The hours of enforced
+idleness seemed very long, and he watched for
+Olive&rsquo;s coming with pathetic eagerness. She
+never failed to appear on Tuesdays and Saturdays,
+though the lessons had been given up
+since his head ached when he tried to learn.
+Signora Aurelia met her always at the door
+with protestations of gratitude. &ldquo;You amuse
+him and make him laugh, my dear, because
+you are so fresh, and you do not mind what
+you say. It is good of you to come so far in
+the sun.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The girl&rsquo;s heart ached to see the haggard
+young face so white against the dark velvet of
+the piled-up cushions. The deep grey eyes
+lit up with pleasure at the sight of her, but she
+found it hard to meet their yearning with a
+smile.</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes she found old men sitting with
+him, grave and potent signiors, professors from
+the University, who, on being introduced,
+beamed paternally and asked her questions
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span>
+about Oxford and Cambridge. There were
+bashful youths too, who blushed when she
+entered and rose hurriedly with muttered
+excuses. If they could be induced to stay,
+Olive, seeing that it pleased Astorre to see
+them shuffling their feet and writhing on their
+chairs in an agony of embarrassment before
+her, did her best to make them uncomfortable.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Your friends are all so timid,&rdquo; she said.
+He looked at her with a kind of triumph, a
+pride of possession.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They do not understand you as I do.
+Fausto admires you, but you frighten him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Is he Gemma&rsquo;s adorer?&rdquo; she asked with
+a careful display of indifference.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, he is always <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">amoroso</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah! Does he smoke?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes. Why?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, nothing,&rdquo; she said. She did not
+really believe that the man on the stairs could
+have been Fausto. Gemma would not look
+twice at such a harmless infant now. When
+she was forty-five, perhaps, she might smile on
+boys, but at twenty-six&mdash;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3>
+
+
+<p>Olive sat in her little bedroom correcting
+exercises.</p>
+
+<p>It was the drowsy middle of the afternoon
+and the heat was intense. All the grey-green
+and golden land of Tuscany lay still and helpless
+at the mercy of the sun. The birds had
+long ceased singing, and only the thin shrilling
+of the locusts broke the August silence. The
+parched earth was pale, and great cracks that
+only the autumn rains could fill had opened on
+the hillsides, but the ripening maize lay snug
+within its narrow sheaths of green, and the
+leaves of the vines hid great bunches of purpling
+grapes. In the fields men rested awhile
+from their labours, and the patient white oxen
+stood in the shade of the mulberries, while the
+sunburnt lads who drove them bathed their
+tired bodies in the stream, or lay idly in the
+lush grass at the water&rsquo;s edge.</p>
+
+<p>In the town the walls of houses that had
+fronted the morning sun were scorching to the
+touch, and there was no coolness even in the
+steep northward streets that were always in
+shadow, or in the grey stone-paved courts of
+the palaces. There were few people about at
+this hour, and the little stream of traffic had
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
+run dry in the Via Cavour. A vendor of
+melons drew his barrow close up to the
+battered old column in the Piazza Tolomei,
+and squatted down on the ground beside
+it. &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Cocomeri! Fresc&rsquo; e buoni!</em>&rdquo; he cried
+once or twice, and then rolled over and went to
+sleep. A peasant girl carrying a basket of
+eggs passed presently, and she looked wistfully
+at the fruit, but she did not disturb his
+slumbers.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Is that the aunt of your friend&rsquo;s mother?
+No, it is the sister of my niece&rsquo;s governess.&rdquo;
+Olive laid down her pen. She was only
+partially dressed and her hair hung loosely
+about her bare white shoulders. The heat
+made hairpins seem a burden and outer garments
+superfluous. &ldquo;My niece&rsquo;s governess is
+the last. Thank Heaven for that!&rdquo; she said,
+and she sat down on the brick floor to take off
+her stockings. Gemma&rsquo;s <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fidanzato</i>, her lawyer
+from Lucca, was coming to Siena for a week.
+He would lodge next door and come in to the
+Menotti for most of his meals, and already
+poor old Carolina was busy in the hot, airless
+kitchen, beating up eggs for a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">zabajone</i>,
+and Signora Carosi had gone out to buy
+ice for the wine and sweet cakes to be handed
+round with little glasses of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vin</i> Santo or
+Marsala.</p>
+
+<p>Carmela came into her cousin&rsquo;s room soon
+after four o&rsquo;clock. &ldquo;I have just taken Gemma
+a cup of black coffee. Her head aches
+terribly.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I heard her moving about her room in the
+night,&rdquo; Olive answered, and she added, under
+her breath, &ldquo;Poor Gemma!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Carmela lowered her voice too. &ldquo;Of
+course Maria and I know that you see what is
+going on as well as we do. There is some
+man ... she lets down a basket from her
+window at nights for letters, and I believe
+she meets him when my aunt thinks she has
+gone to Mass. It is dreadful. How glad
+we shall be when she is safely married and
+away.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Who is the man?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hush! I don&rsquo;t know. Do you hear the
+beating of a drum? One of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Contrade</i> is
+coming.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The two girls ran to the window, and Olive
+opened the green shutters a little way that
+they might see out without being seen. The
+day of the Palio was close at hand, and the
+pages and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> of the rival parishes, whose
+horses were to run in the race, were already
+going about the town. Olive never tired of
+watching the flash of bright colours as the
+flags were flung up and deftly caught again,
+and she cried out now with pleasure as the
+little procession moved leisurely across the
+piazza.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I wonder why they come here,&rdquo; Carmela
+said, as the first <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfiero</i> let the heavy folds of
+silk ripple about his head, twisted the staff,
+seemed to drop it, and gathered it to him again
+easily with his left hand. The page stood
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
+aside with a grave assumption of the gilded
+graces of the thirteenth century. He was
+handsome in his dress of green and white and
+scarlet velvet.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why does he look up here?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive laughed a little. &ldquo;He is the son of
+the cobbler who mends my boots,&rdquo; she
+whispered. &ldquo;He is trying to learn English
+and I have lent him some books, and that is
+why he has come to do us honour. I think
+it is charming of him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She took a white magnolia blossom from a
+glass dish on her table. &ldquo;Shall I be medi&aelig;val
+too?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The boy raised smiling eyes as the pale
+flower came fluttering down to him. One of
+the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> laughed aloud.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">O Romeo, sei bello!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Son&rsquo; felice!</em>&rdquo; he answered, and he kissed
+the waxen petals ardently.</p>
+
+<p>Olive softly clapped her hands together.
+&ldquo;Is he not delicious! What an actor! Oh,
+Italy!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Now that the performance was over the
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> strolled across the piazza to the barrow
+that was still drawn up by the column.
+&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Cocomeri! Fresc&rsquo; e buoni!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I never know what will please you,&rdquo;
+Carmela said as she sat down. &ldquo;But foreigners
+always like the Palio. You will see many
+English and Americans and Germans on the
+stands.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, I love it all. Yesterday I passed
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
+through the Piazza del Campo and saw the
+workmen putting palings all about the centre,
+and hammering at the stands, while others
+strewed sand on the course and fastened
+mattresses to the side of the house by San
+Martino.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fantini</i> are often thrown there and
+flung against the wall. If there were no
+mattresses ... crack!&rdquo; Carmela made a
+sound as of breaking bones and hummed a few
+bars of Chopin&rsquo;s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Marche Fun&egrave;bre</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Olive shuddered. &ldquo;You are an impressionist,
+Carmela. Two dabs of scarlet and a
+smear&mdash;half a word and a shrug of the
+shoulders&mdash;and you have expressed a five-act
+tragedy. I think you could act.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, I am not clever; I should never be
+able to remember my part.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You would improvise,&rdquo; Olive was beginning,
+when Carmela sprang up and ran to the
+window again.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is Orazio!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;He has come
+in a cab.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vetturino</i> had pulled his horse up with a
+jerk of the reins after the manner of his kind;
+the wretched animal had slipped and he was
+now beating it about the head with the butt
+end of his whip. His fare had got out and was
+looking on calmly.</p>
+
+<p>Olive hastily picked up one of her shoes and
+flung it at them. It struck the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vetturino</i>
+just above the ear. &ldquo;A nasty crack,&rdquo;
+she said. &ldquo;His language is evidently frightful.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
+It is a good thing I can&rsquo;t understand it,
+Carmela.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She looked down at the angry, bewildered
+men, and the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vetturino</i>, catching a glimpse of
+the flushed face framed in a soft fluff of brown
+hair, shook his fist and roared a curse upon it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Touch that horse again and I&rsquo;ll throw a
+jug of boiling water over you,&rdquo; she cried as
+she drew the green shutters to; and then, in
+quite another tone, &ldquo;Oh, Giovanni, be good.
+What has the poor beast ever done to you?&rdquo;
+She turned to Carmela. &ldquo;I know him. His
+wife does washing for Signora Aurelia,&rdquo; she
+explained.</p>
+
+<p>A slow grin overspread the man&rsquo;s heavy
+face as he rubbed his head.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Mad English,&rdquo; he said, and then looked
+closely at the coin the Lucchese had tendered
+him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Your legal fare,&rdquo; Orazio began pompously.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Santo Diavolo&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am a lawyer.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Si capisce!</em> Will you give the signorina
+her shoe?&rdquo; He handed it to Orazio, who took
+it awkwardly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The incident is closed,&rdquo; Olive said as she
+came back to her cooling tea. &ldquo;I hope there
+is a heaven for horses and a hell for men.
+Oh, how I hate cruelty! Carmela, if that is
+Orazio I must say I sympathise with Gemma.
+How could any woman love a mean, narrow-shouldered,
+whitey-brown paper thing like
+that?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
+&ldquo;It is a pity,&rdquo; sighed Carmela as she moved
+towards the door. &ldquo;But after all they are all
+alike in the end. I must go now to help Maria
+lace. I pull a little, and then wait a few
+minutes. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">&Egrave; un martirio!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why does she do it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why does an ostrich bury its head in the
+sand? Why does a camel try to get through
+the eye of a needle? (But perhaps he does
+not.) I often tell her fat cannot be hidden,
+but she will not believe.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When Olive went into the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">salotto</i> a few
+minutes before seven she found the family
+assembled. Signor Lucis rose from his place
+at Gemma&rsquo;s side as the aunt uttered the
+introductory formula. He brought his heels
+together and bowed stiffly from the waist,
+and when Olive gave him her hand in English
+fashion he took it limply and held it for a
+moment before he dropped it. His string-coloured
+moustache was brushed up from a
+loose-lipped mouth, and he showed bad teeth
+when he smiled.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The signorina speaks Italian?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, does she come from London?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I had no settled home in England.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah! The sun never shines there?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She laughed. &ldquo;Not as it does here,&rdquo; she
+admitted. &ldquo;Where is my shoe?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It was yours then?&rdquo; he said with an
+attempt at playfulness. &ldquo;Gemma has been
+quite jealous of the unknown owner, but she
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
+says it is much larger than any of hers.&rdquo; The
+girls&rsquo; eyes met but neither spoke, and Orazio
+babbled on, unheeding: &ldquo;Her feet are <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carini</i>,
+and I can span her ankle with my thumb and
+forefinger; but you are small made too,
+signorina.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Carolina poked her head in at the door.
+&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Al suo comodo &egrave; pronto</i>,&rdquo; she said, referring
+to the dinner, and hurried away again to dish
+up the veal cutlets.</p>
+
+<p>The young man contrived to remain behind
+in the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">salotto</i> for a moment and to keep Gemma
+with him. Olive looked at them as they took
+their places at table, and she understood that
+the girl had had to submit to some caress.
+She looked sick and her lips were quite white,
+and if Lucis had been a man of quick perceptions
+he would have realised, her face must
+have shown him, that she loathed him. He
+was dense, however, and though he commented
+on her silence later on it was evident that he
+attributed it to shyness.</p>
+
+<p>Olive, thinking to do well, flung herself into
+the conversational breach. Her cousins had
+nothing to say, and the aunt&rsquo;s thoughts were
+set on the dinner and cumbered with much
+serving. So she talked to him as in duty
+bound, and he seemed inclined to banter her.</p>
+
+<p>Her feet, her temper, her relations with
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vetturini</i>. He was execrable, but she would
+not take offence.</p>
+
+<p>After dinner they all sat in the little <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">salotto</i>
+until it was time to go to the theatre, and still
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
+Olive talked and laughed with Orazio, teaching
+him English words and making fun of his pronunciation
+of them. Gemma watched her
+sombrely and judged her by her own standards,
+and Carmela caught at her cousin&rsquo;s arm
+presently as they passed down the crowded
+Via Cavour together.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why did you make her so angry? She
+will always hate you now. I did not know
+you were <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">civetta</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive looked startled. &ldquo;Angry? What do
+you mean?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why did you speak so much to Orazio?
+Gemma thought you wanted to take her
+husband from her and she will not forgive.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why, I could see it made her ill to look
+at him and that she shrank from his touch, and
+I did as I would be done by. I distracted his
+attention.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Carmela laughed in spite of herself. &ldquo;Oh,
+Olive, and I thought you were so clever. Do
+you not understand that one can be jealous of
+a man one does not love? I know that though
+I am stupid. All Italians are jealous. You
+must remember that.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am sorry,&rdquo; Olive said ruefully after a
+pause. &ldquo;I see you are right. She will never
+believe that I wanted to help her. If only you
+could persuade her to give up Orazio. Surely
+the other man would come forward then. You
+and Maria talk of getting her safely married
+and away, but I see farther. There can be no
+safety in union with the wrong man&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
+Carmela shook her head. &ldquo;She wants a
+husband,&rdquo; she said stolidly, &ldquo;and Orazio will
+make a good one. You do not understand us,
+my dear. You can please yourself with
+dreams and fancies, but we are different.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3>
+
+
+<p>Olive was careful to sit down with Carmela
+on one side of their box on the second tier,
+leaving two chairs in front for the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fidanzati</i>,
+but the young man made several efforts to
+include her in the conversation and she understood
+that she had put herself in a false
+position. Orazio had misunderstood her
+because her manners were not the manners of
+Lucca, and he knew no others. It annoyed
+her to see that he plumed himself on his conquest,
+but her sense of humour enabled her to
+avoid his glances with a good grace, especially
+as she realised that she had brought them on
+herself.</p>
+
+<p>She felt nothing but pity for her cousin now.
+It would be terrible to marry a man like that,
+she thought, and she wondered that so many
+women could rush in where angels feared to
+tread. She believed that there were infinite
+possibilities of happiness in the holy state of
+matrimony, but it seemed to her that perhaps
+the less said of some actualities the better.</p>
+
+<p>Carmela was right. At this time she
+pastured on dreams and fancies. Her
+emotions were not starved, but they were
+kept down and only allowed to nibble. She
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
+thought often of the man who had been kind
+to her, and sometimes she wished that he had
+kissed her. It would have been something to
+remember. Often, if she closed her eyes, she
+could almost cheat herself into believing him
+there close beside her, his brown gaze upon her,
+his lips quivering with a strange eagerness
+that troubled her and yet made her glad.
+Jean Avenel. It was a good name.</p>
+
+<p>He had gone to America and she assured
+herself that he must have forgotten her, but
+she did not try to forget him. She nursed
+the little wistful sorrow for what might
+have been, as women will, and would not
+bind up the scratch he had inflicted. Already
+she had learned that some pain is
+pleasant, and that a stinging sweetness may
+be distilled from tears. Sometimes at night,
+when it was too hot to sleep and she lay
+watching the fine silver lines of moonlight passing
+across the floor, she asked herself if she
+would see him again, and when, and how, and
+wove all manner of cobweb fancies about what
+might be.</p>
+
+<p>She ripened quickly as fruit ripens in the
+hot sunshine of Italy; her lips were more
+sweetly curved and coloured, and her blue
+eyes were shadowed now. They were like
+sapphires seen through a veil.</p>
+
+<p>Maria gave her the opera-glasses and she
+raised them to scan the house. It was a gala
+night and the theatre was hung with flags and
+brilliantly illuminated. There were candles
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
+everywhere, and the great chandelier that hung
+from the ceiling was lit. The heat was stifling,
+and the incessant fluttering of fans gave the
+women in the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">parterre</i> and in the crowded
+boxes a look of unrest that was belied by their
+placid, expressionless faces. Many glanced up
+at the Menotti in their box. There was some
+criticism of Gemma&rsquo;s Lucchese.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He is ugly, but she could not expect to get
+a husband here where she is so well known.
+They say&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The Capuan Psyche and a rose from the
+garden of Eden,&rdquo; said a man in the stage box,
+who had discerned Olive&rsquo;s fresh, eager prettiness
+beyond the pale beauty of the Odalisque.</p>
+
+<p>He handed the glasses to his neighbour.
+&ldquo;Choose.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The <i>r&ocirc;le</i> of Paris is a thankless one; it
+involved death in the end for the shepherd
+prince.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, but you are not a shepherd prince.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The man addressed was handsome as a faun
+might be and as a tiger is. Not sleek, but
+lean and brown, with hot, insolent eyes and a
+fine and cruel mouth. A great emerald
+sparkled on the little finger of his left hand.
+He was one of the few in the house who wore
+evening dress, and he was noticeable on that
+account, but he had been standing talking
+with some other men at the back of his box
+hitherto. He came forward now and Gemma
+saw him. Her set lips relaxed and seemed to
+redden as she met his bold, lifted gaze, but as
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
+his eyes left hers and he raised his glasses to
+stare past her at Olive her face contracted
+so that for the moment she was almost ugly.</p>
+
+<p>The performance was timed to begin at nine,
+but at twenty minutes past the hour newsvendors
+were still going to and fro with bundles
+of evening papers, and the orchestra was represented
+by a melancholy bald-headed man with
+a cornet. The other musicians came in
+leisurely, one by one, and at last the conductor
+took his place and the audience settled
+down and was comparatively quiet while the
+Royal March was being played. The orchestra
+had begun the overture to <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Rigoletto</i> when some
+of the men who stood in the packed arena
+behind the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">palchi</i> cried out and their friends in
+other parts of the house joined in. They
+howled like wolves, and for a few minutes the
+uproar was terrific, and Verdi&rsquo;s music was
+overwhelmed by the clamour of voices until
+the conductor, turning towards the audience,
+said something inaudible with a deprecating
+bow and a quick movement of his hands.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ora, zitti!</em>&rdquo; yelled a voice from the
+gallery.</p>
+
+<p>Silence was instant, and the whole house rose
+and stood reverently, listening to a weird and
+confused jumble of broken chords that yet
+could stir the pulses and quicken the beating
+of young hearts.</p>
+
+<p>Olive had risen with the rest. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
+she whispered to Maria.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Garibaldi&rsquo;s Hymn.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
+It seemed a red harmony of rebellious souls,
+climbing, struggling, clutching at the skirts of
+Freedom. The patter of spent shot, the
+heavy breathing of hunted fugitives, the
+harsh crying of dying men, the rush of feet
+that stumbled as they came over the graves
+of the Past; all these sounds of bygone strife
+rang, as it were, faintly, beyond the strange
+music, as the sea echoes, sighing, in a
+shell.</p>
+
+<p>Signora Aurelia had told Olive how in the
+years before Italy was free and united under the
+king, when Guiseppe Verdi was a young man,
+the students would call his name in the theatre
+until the house rang to the cry of &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Viva
+Verdi! Viva Verdi!</em>&rdquo; A little because they
+loved their music-maker, more because V.&nbsp;E.&nbsp;R.&nbsp;D.&nbsp;I.
+meant Vittor Emanuele, Re D&rsquo;Italia,
+and they liked to sing his forbidden praises
+in the very ears of the white-coat Austrians.</p>
+
+<p>They had their Victor. Had he not
+sufficed? Olive knew that the authorities
+scarcely countenanced the playing of the
+Republican hymn. Was it because it made
+men long for some greater ruler than a king, or
+for no ruler at all? Freedom is more elusive
+even than happiness. Never yet has she
+yielded herself to men, though she makes large
+promises and exacts sacrifices as cruel as ever
+those of Moloch could have been. Her altars
+stream with blood, but she ... she is talking,
+or she is pursuing, or she is on a journey, or
+peradventure she sleepeth ... and her
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
+prophets must still call upon her and cut themselves
+with knives.</p>
+
+<p>As the curtain went up Olive leant forward
+that she might see the stage. It was her first
+opera. Music is a necessity in Italy, but in
+England it is a luxury, and somehow she and
+her mother had never been able to afford even
+seats in the gallery at Covent Garden.</p>
+
+<p>Now all her thoughts, all her fancies, were
+swept away in the flood of charming melody.
+The story, when she understood it, shocked
+and repelled her. It seemed strange that
+crime should be set to music, and that one
+should have to see abduction, treachery, vice,
+and a murder brutally committed in full view
+of the audience, while the tenor sang the
+lightest of all his lyrics: &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">La donna &egrave; mobile</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Gemma asked for an ice during the second
+<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entr&rsquo;acte</i>, and Orazio hurried out to get one for
+her at the buffet. The girl looked tired,
+but she was kind to her lover in her silent,
+languid way, listening to his whispered
+inanities, and allowing him to hold her hand,
+though her flesh shrank from the damp clamminess
+of his grasp, and she hated his nearness
+and wished him away.</p>
+
+<p>The man who sat alone now in the stage
+box could see no flaw in her composure, and she
+seemed to him as perfectly calm as she was
+perfectly beautiful, though he had noticed
+that not once had she looked towards the stage.
+She kept her eyes down, and they were
+shadowed by the long black lashes. Ah, she
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
+was beautiful! The man&rsquo;s lean brown face
+was troubled and he sighed under his breath.
+He went out in the middle of the third act,
+and he did not come back again.</p>
+
+<p>After a while Gemma moved restlessly.
+&ldquo;Orazio, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">per carit&agrave;</i>! Your hand is so hot and
+sticky! I shall change places with Carmela,&rdquo;
+she said. She released her fingers from the
+young man&rsquo;s grasp with the air of one crushing
+a forward insect or removing a bramble from
+the path, and she actually beckoned to her
+sister to come.</p>
+
+<p>Orazio flushed red and he seemed about to
+speak as Carmela rose from her seat, but the
+aunt interposed hurriedly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Sit still, Gemma, you are tired or you
+would not speak so. The lights hurt your
+eyes and make your head ache.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, I am tired,&rdquo; the girl said wearily.
+&ldquo;I slept ill last night. Forgive me, Orazio,
+if I was cross. I am sorry.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Her dull submission touched Olive with a
+sudden sense of pity and of fear, but Orazio
+was blind and deaf to all things written
+between the lines of life, and he could not
+interpret it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I do not always understand you,&rdquo; he said
+stiffly, and he would not relax until presently
+she drew nearer to him of her own accord.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3>
+
+
+<p>The Vicolo dei Moribondi is the narrowest of
+all the steep stone-paved streets that lead from
+the upper town to the market-place of Siena,
+and the great red bulk of the Palazzo Pubblico
+overshadows it. Olive had come that way
+once from the Porta Romana, and seeing the
+legend: &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Affitasi una camera</i>&rdquo; displayed in
+the doorway of one of the shabby houses, had
+been moved to climb the many stairs to see the
+room in question.</p>
+
+<p>It proved to be a veritable eyrie, large, bare,
+passably clean, and very well lighted. From
+the window she saw the hillside below the
+church of San Giuseppe, a huddle of red
+roofs and grey olive orchards melting into a
+blue haze of distance beyond the city walls,
+and the crowning heights of San Quirico.
+Leaning out over the sill of crumbling stone
+she looked down into the Vicolo as into a well.</p>
+
+<p>The rent was very low, and the woman who
+had the room to let seemed a decent though a
+frowsy old soul, and so the matter was settled
+there and then, and Olive had left the house
+with the key of her new domain in her pocket.</p>
+
+<p>She had bought a table and two chairs and
+a shelf for her books at a second-hand furniture
+shop near the Duomo, and had given her first
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
+lesson there two days later, and soon the quiet
+place seemed more like home to her than the
+stuffy flat in the Piazza Tolomei. What
+matter if she came to it breathless from climbing
+five flights of stairs? It was good to be
+high up above the stale odours of the streets.
+The window was always open. There were no
+woollen mats to be faded or waxen fruits to
+be melted by the sun&rsquo;s heat. A little plaster
+bust of Dante stood on the table, and Olive
+kept the flowers her pupils gave her, pink
+oleander blossoms and white roses from the
+terrace gardens, in a jar of majolica ware, but
+otherwise the place was unadorned.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is like a convent,&rdquo; Carmela said when
+she came there with Maria and her aunt for an
+English tea-drinking.</p>
+
+<p>Signora Carosi had sipped a little tea and
+eaten a good many of the cakes Olive had
+bought from the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">pasticceria</i>. &ldquo;The situation
+is impossible,&rdquo; she remarked, as she brushed
+the crumbs off her lap.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The stairs are a drawback,&rdquo; Olive admitted,
+not without malice, &ldquo;but fortunately
+my pupils are all young and strong.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You are English. I always say that when
+I am asked how I can permit such things.
+&lsquo;What would you? She teaches men grammar
+alone in an attic. I cannot help it. She is
+English.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Gemma had been asked to come too on this
+occasion, but she had excused herself. She so
+often had headaches when the others were
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>
+going out, and they would leave her lying
+down in her room. When they came back she
+was always up and better, and yet she seemed
+feverish and strange. Then sometimes of a
+morning, when Maria and the aunt had gone
+out marketing, and Carmela, shapeless and
+dishevelled in her white cotton jacket, was
+dusting or ironing, the beautiful idle sister
+would come out of her room, dressed for the
+street and carrying a prayer-book. Carmela
+would remonstrate with her. &ldquo;You are not
+going alone?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Only to mass.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>On the morning of the fifteenth of August
+she did not go with the others to the parish
+church at six o&rsquo;clock, but she was up early,
+nevertheless. She wrote a letter, and presently,
+having sealed it, she dropped it out of
+the window. A boy who had been lingering
+about the piazza since dawn, and staring up at
+the close-shuttered fronts of the tall houses,
+picked it up and ran off with it. When Maria
+and Carmela came back with their aunt soon
+after seven they drank their black coffee in the
+kitchen before going to their rooms to rest.
+Carolina took Olive&rsquo;s breakfast in to her on a
+tray when they were gone. The English girl
+had milk with her coffee and some slices of
+bread spread with rancid butter. Gemma
+lay in wait for the old woman and stopped her
+as she came from the kitchen.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Find out what she is going to do to-day,&rdquo;
+she whispered.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
+Carolina nodded and her shrivelled monkey
+face was puckered into a smile. She came
+back presently. &ldquo;She is going to the Duomo
+and then to <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">colazione</i> with the De Sancti.
+She will go with Signora Aurelia to see the
+Palio and only come back here to supper.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Gemma went back to her room to finish her
+dressing. She put on a pink muslin frock and
+a hat of white straw wreathed with roses and
+leaves. Surely her beauty should avail to give
+her all she desired, light and warmth always,
+diamonds and fine laces, and silks to clothe
+her and give her grace, and the possession of
+the one man&rsquo;s heart, with his name and a place
+in the world beside him. Surely she was not
+destined to live with Orazio and his tiresome
+mother, penned up in a shabby little house in
+Lucca, and there growing old and hideous.
+She sat before her glass thinking these thoughts
+and waiting until she heard Olive&rsquo;s quick, light
+step in the passage and then the opening and
+shutting of the front door. Carolina was in
+the kitchen and the others had gone to lie
+down, but she went into the dining-room and
+listened for a moment there before she ventured
+into her cousin&rsquo;s room. She had often
+been in to pry when alone in the flat, and she
+knew where to look for the key of the attic in
+the Vicolo. Olive always kept it in a corner
+of the table drawer and it was there now.
+Gemma smiled her rare slow smile as she put
+it in her purse. There was a photograph of her
+aunt&mdash;Olive&rsquo;s mother&mdash;on the dressing-table,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
+and a Tauchnitz edition of Swinburne&rsquo;s <i>Atalanta
+in Calydon</i> lay beside it, the embroidered
+tassel of the marker being one of Astorre&rsquo;s
+pitiful little gifts. She swept them off on to
+the floor and poured the contents of the ink-stand
+over them. She had acted on a spiteful
+impulse, and she was half afraid when she saw
+the black stream trickling over the book and
+blotting out the face of the woman who had
+been of her kin. It seemed unlucky, a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">malore</i>,
+and she was vexed with herself. She looked
+into the kitchen on her way out. &ldquo;Carolina,
+if they ask where I am I have gone to church.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The old woman nodded. &ldquo;Very well, signorina,
+but you are becoming too devout.
+<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Bada, figlia mia!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Siena is a city dedicated to the Virgin, and
+the feast of her Assumption is the greatest of
+all her red-letter days. The streets had
+echoed at dawn to the feet of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contadini</i> coming
+in by the Porta Romana, the Porta Camollia,
+the Porta Pespini. The oxen had been fed and
+left in their stalls; there was no ploughing in
+the fields on this day, no gathering of figs, no
+sound of singing voices and laughter in the
+vineyards. The brown wrinkled old men and
+women, the lithe, slender youths in their suits
+of black broadcloth&mdash;wood gods disguised by
+cheap tailoring&mdash;all had left their work and
+come many a mile along the dusty roads
+and across fields to the town for the dear
+Madonna&rsquo;s sake, and to see the Palio. The
+country girls had all new dresses for the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ferragosto</i> and they strutted in the Via Cavour
+like little pigeons pluming themselves in the
+sunshine. They were nearly all pretty, and
+the flapping hats of Tuscan straw half hid and
+half revealed charming curves of cheek and
+chin, little tip-tilted noses, soft brown eyes.
+Many of the townsfolk were out too on this
+day of days and the streets were crowded with
+gay, vociferous people. There was so much to
+see. The old picture-gallery was free to all,
+and the very beggars might go in to see the
+sly, pale, almond-eyed Byzantine Madonne in
+their gilt frames, and Sodoma&rsquo;s tormented
+Christ at the Pillar with the marks of French
+bullets in the plaster. All the palaces too were
+hung with arras, flags fluttered everywhere,
+church bells were ringing.</p>
+
+<p>Gemma passed down a side street and
+went a little out of her way to avoid the
+Piazza del Campo, but she had to cross the
+Via Ricasoli, and the crowd was so dense there
+that she was forced to stand on a doorstep
+for a while before she could get by.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What are they all staring at?&rdquo; she asked
+impatiently of a woman near her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is the horse of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Montone</i>! They are
+taking him to be blessed at the parish church.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The poor animal was led by the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fantino</i> who
+was to ride him in the race, and followed by
+the page. He was small and lean and grey,
+with outstanding ribs and the dry scar of an
+old wound on his flank. The people eyed him
+curiously. &ldquo;An ugly beast!&rdquo; &ldquo;Yes, but
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
+you should see him run when the cognac is in
+him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Gemma began to be afraid that she would
+be late, and that He might find the door shut
+and go away again, and she pushed her way
+through the crowd and hurried down the
+Vicolo and into the house numbered thirteen.
+She was very breathless, being tightly laced
+and unused to so many stairs, and she
+stumbled a little as she crossed the threshold.
+She was glad to sit down on one of the chairs
+by the open window. The bare room no
+longer seemed conventual now that its unaccustomed
+air was stirred by the movement of
+her fan and tainted by the faint scent of her
+violet powder.</p>
+
+<p>Outside, in the market-place, the country
+women were sitting in the shade of their
+enormous red and blue striped umbrellas
+beside their stalls of fruit, while the people who
+came to buy moved to and fro from one to the
+other, beating down prices, chaffering eagerly
+with little cries of &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Per carit&agrave;!</em>&rdquo; and &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio
+mio!</em>&rdquo; shrugging their shoulders, moving
+away, until at last the peasants would abate
+their price by one soldo. A clinking of coppers
+followed, and the green peaches and small black
+figs would be pushed into a string bag with a
+bit of meat wrapped in a back number of the
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Vedetta Senese</i>, a half kilo of <i>pasta</i>, and perhaps
+a tiny packet of snuff from the shop
+where they sell salt and tobacco and picture
+postcards of the Pope and La Bella Otero.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>
+In the old days the scaffold and the gallows
+had been set up there, and the Street of the
+Dying had earned its name then, so many
+doomed wretches had passed down it from the
+Justice Hall and the prisons to the place of
+expiation. Weighed down by chains they had
+gone reluctantly, dragging their feet upon
+their last journey, trying to listen to the
+priest&rsquo;s droning of prayers, or to see some
+friendly face in the crowd.</p>
+
+<p>The memory of old sorrows and torments lay
+heavy sometimes here on those who had eyes
+to see and ears to hear the things of the past,
+and Olive was often pitifully aware of the
+Moribondi. Rain had streamed down their
+haggard faces, washing their tears away, the
+sun had shone upon them, dazzling their tired
+eyes as they turned the corner where the cobbler
+had his stall now, and came to the place from
+whence they might have their first glimpse
+of the scaffold. Poor frightened souls! But
+Gemma knew nothing of them, and she would
+have cared nothing if she had known. She
+was not imaginative, and her own ills and the
+present absorbed her, since now she heard the
+man&rsquo;s step upon the stair.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You have come then,&rdquo; she cried.</p>
+
+<p>He made no answer, but he put his arms
+about her, holding her close, and kissed her
+again and again.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER X</h3>
+
+
+<p>&ldquo;Filippo! Let me go! Let me breathe,
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carissimo</i>! I want to speak to you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He did not seem to hear her. He had
+drawn the long steel pins out of her hat and had
+thrown the pretty thing down on the floor,
+and the loosened coils of shining hair fell over
+his hands as his strong lips bruised the pale,
+flower-like curves of her mouth.</p>
+
+<p>Filippo had loved many women in the only
+way possible to him, and they had been won
+by his brutality and his insolence, and by the
+glamour of his name. The annals of medi&aelig;val
+Italy were stained with blood and tears
+because of the Tor di Rocca, and their loves
+that ended always in cruelty and horror, and
+Filippo had all the instincts of his decadent
+race. In love he was pitiless; no impulses of
+tenderness or of chivalry restrained him, and
+his methods were primeval and violent.
+Probably the Rape of the Sabines was his ideal
+of courtship, but the subsequent domesticity,
+the settling down of the Romans with their
+stolen wives, would have been less to his taste.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Filippo!&rdquo; Gemma cried again, and this
+time he let her go.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You may breathe for one minute,&rdquo; he said,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
+looking at his watch. &ldquo;There is not much
+time.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He drew the chair towards the table and
+sat down. &ldquo;Come!&rdquo; he said imperatively,
+but she shook her head.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, Filippo, I love you, but you must
+listen. Did you see my <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fidanzato</i> in our box
+at the theatre last night?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, and I am glad he is so ugly. I shall
+not be jealous. You must give me your
+address in Lucca,&rdquo; he said coolly.</p>
+
+<p>Her face fell. &ldquo;You will let me marry him?
+You&mdash;you do not mind?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He made a grimace. &ldquo;I do not like it, but
+I cannot help it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But he makes me sick,&rdquo; she said tremulously.
+&ldquo;I hate him to touch me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It seemed that her words lit some fire in
+him. His hot eyes sparkled as he stretched
+out his arms to her. &ldquo;Ah, come to me now
+then.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She stood still by the table watching him
+fearfully. &ldquo;Filippo, I hoped&mdash;I thought you
+would take me away.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is impossible. I cannot even see you
+again until after Christmas. It will be safer&mdash;better
+not. But in January I will come to
+Lucca, and then&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He hesitated, weighing his words, weighing
+his thought and his desire.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And then?&rdquo; she said.</p>
+
+<p>He looked at her closely, deliberately,
+divining the beauty that was half hidden from
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
+him. Her parted lips were lovely, and the
+texture of her white skin was satin smooth as
+the petals of a rose; there was no fault in the
+pure oval of her face, in the line of her black
+brows. He could see no flaw in her now, and
+he believed that she would still seem unsurpassably
+fair after a lapse of time.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Then, if you still wish it, I will take you
+away. You shall have a villa at San Remo&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I understand,&rdquo; she said hurriedly, and she
+covered her face with her hands.</p>
+
+<p>She had hoped to be the Princess Tor di
+Rocca, and he had offered to keep her still as
+his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">amica</i>. Presently, if she wished it and it
+still suited him, he would set her feet on the
+way that led to the streets. &ldquo;Then if you
+wish it&mdash;&rdquo; To her the insult seemed to lie in
+the proposed delay. She loved him, and she
+had no love for virtue. She loved him, and
+if he had urged her to go with him on the
+instant she would have yielded easily. But
+she must await his convenience; next year,
+perhaps; and meanwhile she must go to
+Lucca, she must be married to the other man.</p>
+
+<p>She was crying, and tears oozed out between
+her fingers and dripped on the floor. &ldquo;He is
+horrible to me,&rdquo; she said brokenly.</p>
+
+<p>Filippo rose then and came to her; he loved
+her in his way, and she moved him as no
+woman had done yet.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why need you marry him? Do not.
+Wait for me here and I will surely come for
+you,&rdquo; he said as he drew her to him.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span>
+She hid her face on his shoulder. &ldquo;I dare
+not send him away,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;All
+Siena would laugh at me, and I should be
+ashamed to be seen. No other man would
+ever take me after such a scandal. Besides,
+you know I must be married. You know
+that, Filippo! And if you did not
+come&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I shall come.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She clung to him in silence for a while before
+she spoke again.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why not until January?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You will be good if I tell you?&rdquo; he asked
+when he had kissed her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, yes; only hold me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Gemma, you must know that I am poor.
+I have told you often how the palace in
+Florence is shabby, eaten up with moth and
+rust. The Villa at Certaldo is falling into
+ruins too. I am poor.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You have an automobile, servants, horses;
+you stay here at the best hotel.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I should not be poor for a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contadino</i> but I
+am for a prince,&rdquo; he said impatiently and with
+emphasis. &ldquo;Believe me, I want money, and I
+must have it. I cannot steal it or earn it, or
+win it in the lottery unfortunately, so I must
+marry it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She cowered down as though he had struck
+her, and made an effort to escape from him,
+but he held her fast. She tried to speak, but
+the pain in her throat prevented her from
+uttering an articulate sound.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Do not think of the woman,&rdquo; he said
+hurriedly. &ldquo;You need not. I do not. Once
+I am married I shall go my own way, of
+course, but her father is in Naples now, and
+he is a tiresome old fool.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Santissimo Dio!</em>&rdquo; she gasped presently.
+&ldquo;When&mdash;when&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;In December.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Is she beautiful?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He laughed as he gave the answer she hoped
+for. &ldquo;She is an American,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;and
+it sets one&rsquo;s teeth on edge to hear her trying
+to talk Italian. Her accent! She is a small
+dry thing like a grasshopper.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I wish she was dead.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He set himself to soothe and comfort her,
+but it was not easy.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I might as well be ugly,&rdquo; she cried again
+and again.</p>
+
+<p>It was the simple expression of her defeat.
+The beauty she had held to be a shield against
+sorrow and a key to the garden of delights was
+but a poor thing after all. It had not availed
+her, and she had nothing else. She was
+stripped now, naked, alone and defenceless in a
+hard world.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carissima</i>, be still. Have patience. I
+love you, and I shall come for you,&rdquo; whispered
+Tor di Rocca, and she tried to believe him,
+and to persuade herself that the flame in his
+brown eyes would burn for her always.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly, as the passion of grief ebbed, the
+tide of love rose in her and flushed her wan,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
+tear-stained face and made it beautiful. The
+door of the room was opened, but neither she
+nor the man heard it, or saw it closed again.
+It was their last hour, this bare room was their
+world and they were alone in it.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER XI</h3>
+
+
+<p>The table was set for lunch out on the terrace
+where Astorre lay gazing upon his Tuscany,
+veiled in a shimmering haze of heat and
+crowned with August blue. The best coffee
+cups of majolica ware had been set out, and
+signora had made a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">zabajone</i> in honour of
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ferragosto</i>. It was meant to please Olive, who
+was childishly fond of its thick yellow sweetness,
+but she seemed restless and depressed;
+Astorre looked ill, and his mother&rsquo;s eyes were
+anxious as they dwelt on him, and so the
+dainty was eaten in silence, and passed away
+unhonoured and unsung as though it were
+humble pie or a funeral baked meat.</p>
+
+<p>Later in the afternoon, when the signora had
+gone to lie down, Astorre began to ask questions.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Is your face hot?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes&mdash;no&mdash;what makes you think&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You are flushed,&rdquo; he said bluntly, &ldquo;and
+you will not meet my eyes. Why? Why?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t ask,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;I cannot
+tell you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The haggard, aquiline face changed and
+hardened. &ldquo;Someone has been rude to you,
+or has frightened you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo; She moved away to escape the inquisition
+of his eyes. &ldquo;Some of these plants
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
+want water. I shall fetch some.&rdquo; She was
+going in when he called to her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Olive,&rdquo; he said haltingly. &ldquo;Perhaps we
+ought to have told you before. My mother
+heard of some people who want an English
+governess from a friend of hers who is a music
+mistress in Florence. They are rich and
+would pay well, and we should have told you
+when we heard of it, three days ago, but I could
+not bear the thought of your leaving Siena
+while&mdash;while I am still here. But if those
+people in the Piazza Tolomei are unkind&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She came back then and sat down beside
+him. &ldquo;I do not want to leave Siena,&rdquo; she
+said gently.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; he answered, and added:
+&ldquo;It will not be for long. Why should I pretend
+to you?&rdquo; he went on. &ldquo;I have suffered,
+but now I have no pain at all, only I am very
+weak. Look!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He held up his hand; it was yellowish white
+and so thin as to be almost transparent, and it
+seemed to Olive to be most pathetic because
+it was not very small or very finely made. It
+held the broken promise of power, she thought
+sorrowfully, and she stroked the outstretched
+palm gently as though it were a half-frozen
+bird that she would bring to life again.</p>
+
+<p>He closed his eyes, smiling. &ldquo;Ah, your
+little fingers are soft and warm.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You were at the theatre last night,&rdquo; he
+said presently. &ldquo;Fausto saw you. How do
+you like your cousin&rsquo;s <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fidanzato</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Not at all.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Olive, do you know that they say strange
+things about the Odalisque? I am afraid there
+will be trouble if her Lucchese hears&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I do not care to hear that nickname,&rdquo;
+she said coldly. &ldquo;It is impertinent and
+absurd.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, do not let go of my hand,&rdquo; he implored.
+&ldquo;Keep on stroking it. I love it! I
+love it! If I were a cat you would hear me
+purring. Tell me about England and Shakespeare
+and Shelley. Anything. I will be
+good.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I&mdash;I have not brought the book I promised
+you. I would have fetched it on my
+way here, but&mdash;but I had not the key. I am
+sorry, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">nino</i>. Yes, let us talk of nice things.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She was quick to relent, and soon seemed to
+be herself again, and he kept his fever-bright
+eyes on her, watching her as in the old days
+men may have watched the stars as they
+waited for the dawn that was to see them pass
+by the Vicolo dei Moribondi.</p>
+
+<p>Soon, very soon, Signora Aurelia would
+come out to them, and she would stay beside
+her son while Olive went to put on her hat,
+and then they would say &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Addio</i>&rdquo; and leave
+him. And perhaps he would indeed go to
+God, or to some place where he would see the
+dear ones no more. The boy&rsquo;s beautiful lips
+were shut close, but the grey eyes darkened
+and dilated painfully.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Astorre! Are you ill? Do not look so.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
+Oh, I will not go to the Palio. I will stay with
+you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, you must go, and to-morrow you can
+tell me all about it. But will you kiss me
+now? Do.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You need not ask twice, dear Astorre,&rdquo;
+she whispered, as she leant over him and
+touched his forehead with her lips.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ma che!</em>&rdquo; he said ungratefully. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s
+nothing. Kiss me properly and at once.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When the boy&rsquo;s mother came out on to the
+terrace a moment later Olive&rsquo;s blue eyes were
+full of tears and the rose flush of her cheeks
+had deepened, but she looked at her friend very
+kindly as she uttered the word he had been
+afraid to hear.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Addio!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Piazza del Campo was crowded as the
+Signora Aurelia and Olive passed through it to
+their seats on the second best stand, and the
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i> were clearing the course. The
+thousands of people in the central space, who
+had been chewing melon seeds, fanning themselves,
+and talking vociferously as they waited,
+grew quieter, and all began to look one way
+towards the narrow street from whence the
+procession should appear.</p>
+
+<p>Olive sat wedged between Signora Aurelia
+and an old country priest whose shabby
+soutane was stained with the mud his housekeeper
+should have brushed off after the last
+rains, a fortnight before. He had a kind, worn
+face that smiled when Olive helped him put
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
+his cotton umbrella in a safe place between
+them.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I shall not need it yet,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;But
+there is a storm coming. Do you not feel the
+heaviness of the air, and the heat, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio mio</i>!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The deep bell of the Mangia tower tolled,
+and then the signal was given, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">un colpo di
+mortaletto</i>, and the pageant began.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly they came, the grave, armoured
+knights riding with their visors up that all
+might see how well the tanner, Giovanni, and
+Enrico Lupi of the wine-shop, looked in chain
+mail; gay, velvet-clad pages carrying the silk-embroidered
+standards of their <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrade</i> with
+all the fine airs of the lads who stand about the
+bier of Saint Catherine in Ghirlandaio&rsquo;s fresco
+in the Duomo; lithe, slender <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> tossing
+their flags, twisting them about in the carefully-concerted
+movements that look so easy and
+are so difficult, until the whole great Piazza
+was girdled with fluttering light and colour,
+while it echoed to the thrilling and disquieting
+beat of the drums. Each <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrada</i> had its
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tamburino</i>, and each <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">tamburino</i> beat upon his
+drum incessantly until his arms tired and the
+sweat poured down his face.</p>
+
+<p>Olive&rsquo;s head began to ache, but she was
+excited and happy, enjoying the spectacle as
+a child enjoys its first pantomime, not thinking
+but feeling, and steeping her senses in the
+southern glow and gaiety that was all about
+her. For the moment her cousin&rsquo;s shame and
+sorrow, and her friend&rsquo;s pain seemed old,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
+unhappy, far-off things, and she could not
+realise them here.</p>
+
+<p>The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrada</i> of the Oca was the last to go by;
+it was a favourite with the people because its
+colours were those of the Italian flag, red,
+white and green, and the Evvivas broke out as
+it passed. Olive&rsquo;s page, her cobbler&rsquo;s son,
+looked gravely up at her as he went by, and
+she smiled at him and was glad to see that he
+still wore the magnolia bud she had thrown him
+in his hood of parti-coloured silk.</p>
+
+<p>Presently they were all seated&mdash;the knights
+and pages with their standard-bearers and
+esquires&mdash;on their own stand in the place of
+honour before the great central gates of the
+Palazzo Pubblico.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Now the horses will run,&rdquo; explained the
+signora. &ldquo;Many people like this part best,
+but I do not. Poor beasts! They are half
+drunk, and they are often hurt or killed. The
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fantini</i> lash at each other with their hide
+whips. Once I saw the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Montone</i> strike the
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Lupa</i> just as they passed here; the crimson
+flashed out across his face, and in his pain he
+pulled his horse aside, and it fell heavily
+against the palings and threw him so that the
+horse of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Bruco</i> coming on behind could not
+avoid going over him. They said it was
+terrible to see that livid weal across his mouth
+as he lay in his coffin.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He died then?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ma! Sicuro!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive looked up at the window where the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
+Menotti should have been, and saw strange
+faces there. They had not come then. They
+had not, and Astorre could not. Astorre was
+very ill ... the times were out of joint. Her
+cousin&rsquo;s shame and sorrow and her friend&rsquo;s
+pain seemed to come near again, and to be
+once more a part of her life, and she saw &ldquo;gold
+tarnished, and the grey above the green.&rdquo;
+When the horses came clattering by, urged by
+their riders, maddened by the roar of the
+crowd, she tried to shut her eyes, but she could
+not. The horse of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dragone</i> stumbled at
+the turn by San Martino and the rider was
+thrown, and another fell by the Chigi palace
+as they came round the second time. Olive
+covered her face with her hands. The thin,
+panting flanks, marked with half-healed scars
+and stained with sweat, the poor broken
+knees, the strained, suffering eyes ...</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Are you ill, signorina?&rdquo; the old priest
+asked kindly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, but the poor horses&mdash;I cannot look.
+Who has won?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He rose to his feet. &ldquo;The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Oca</i>!&rdquo; he cried
+excitedly. A great roar of voices acclaimed
+the favourite&rsquo;s victory, and when the spent
+horse came to a standstill the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fantino</i> slipped
+off its back and was instantly surrounded by
+men and boys of his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrada</i>, dancing and
+shouting with joy, kissing him on both cheeks,
+pulling him this way and that, until the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i>
+came up and took him away amongst
+them.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
+&ldquo;The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Bruco</i> hoped to win,&rdquo; the priest said,
+&ldquo;and the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Oca&rsquo;s fantino</i> might get a knife in
+his back if he were not taken care of.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Already the crowd was dispersing. The
+victorious <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrada</i> had been given the painted
+standard of the Palio, and were bearing it in
+triumph to the parish church, where it would
+remain until the next <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ferragosto</i>. The others
+were going their separate ways, pages and
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> in silk doublets and parti-coloured hosen
+arm-in-arm with their friends in black broadcloth,
+standard-bearers smoking cigarettes,
+knights unhelmed and wiping heated brows
+with red cotton handkerchiefs.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I will go down the Via Ricasoli with you,&rdquo;
+Olive said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is I who should take you home.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, I do not mind the crowd, and I know
+you are anxious to get back to Astorre.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Astorre&mdash;yes. Olive, you don&rsquo;t think he
+looks more delicate, do you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The girl felt that she could not have
+answered truly if her life had depended on her
+veracity.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;He is rather tired, I
+think. The heat tries him. He will be better
+later on.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The poor mother seemed relieved.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You are right; he is always pale in the
+summer,&rdquo; she said, trying to persuade herself
+that it was so. &ldquo;You will come to-morrow
+to tell him about the Palio?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, surely.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
+There were to be fireworks later on at the
+Fortezza and illuminations of the Lizza
+gardens, so the human tide set that way and
+left the outlying parts of the city altogether.
+The quiet, tree-shadowed piazzetta before the
+church of Santa Maria dei Servi was quite
+deserted. Children played there in the
+mornings, and old men and women lingered
+there and sat on the wooden benches in the
+sun, but they were all away now; the bells
+had rung for the Ave Maria, the church doors
+were closed, and the sacristan had gone to his
+supper.</p>
+
+<p>A little mist had crept up from the valley;
+steep red roofs and old walls that had glowed
+in the sun&rsquo;s last rays were shadowed as the
+light waned, and black clouds came up from
+the horizon and blotted out the stars.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Go home quickly now, Olive. There will
+be a storm. The poor mad people will howl
+to-night in the Manicomio. I hear them
+sometimes when I am lying awake. Good-night,
+my dear.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Good-night.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER XII</h3>
+
+
+<p>Olive was tired, and now that she was alone
+she knew that she was also a little afraid, so
+that she lingered on the way and went slowly
+up the stairs of the house in the Piazza Tolomei.
+Carmela answered her ring at the bell; her
+face was swollen and her eyes were red with
+crying, and the little lamp she carried shook
+in her hand.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, Olive,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;Orazio says he will
+not marry her. He has heard such things
+about her from his friends, and even in the
+Caf&eacute; Greco.... It is a scandal.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She put her lamp down on the floor, and
+took out her handkerchief to wipe away the
+tears that were running down her cheeks.</p>
+
+<p>Olive came in and shut the door after her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They are all in the dining-room. Aunt
+sent Carolina out for the evening, and it is a
+good thing, because of course in the kitchen
+she could hear everything. He sent a message
+to say he could not go to the Palio, and
+Gemma&rsquo;s head ached when she came back from
+church, so we all stayed in. He came half an
+hour ago&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What does Gemma say?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Nothing. She looks like a stone.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I must go through the dining-room to get
+to my room,&rdquo; Olive said uncertainly. &ldquo;What
+shall I do? Pass through very quickly or
+wait here in the passage?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Better go in,&rdquo; advised Carmela. &ldquo;They
+may not even notice you. He keeps on talking
+so loudly, and aunt and Maria are crying.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Poor things! I am so sorry!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The two girls clung together for a moment,
+and Olive&rsquo;s eyes filled with tears as she kissed
+her cousin&rsquo;s poor trembling lips. Then Carmela
+stooped to pick up her lamp and put it
+out, and they went on together down the
+passage.</p>
+
+<p>The lamp was lit on the table that Carolina
+had laid for supper before she went out, and
+the Menotti sat in their accustomed places as
+though they were at a meal. Orazio Lucis
+was walking to and fro and gesticulating. His
+boots creaked, and the noise they made grated
+on the women&rsquo;s nerves as he talked loudly and
+incessantly, and they listened. Maria kept
+her face hidden in her hands, but Gemma held
+herself erect as ever, and she did not move
+when the two girls came in, though her sombre
+eyes were full of shame.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What shall I say to my friends in Lucca?&rdquo;
+raved Orazio. &ldquo;What shall I say to my
+mother? Even if I still consented to marry
+you she would not permit it; she would refuse
+to live in the same house with such a person&mdash;and
+she would be right. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Mamma mia!</em> She
+is always right. She said, &lsquo;The girl is beautiful,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
+but she has no money, and I tell you to
+think twice.&rsquo; I have been trapped here by all
+you women. You all knew.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He pointed an accusing finger at Signora
+Carosi. She sobbed helplessly, bitterly, as she
+tried to answer him, and Olive, who had waited
+in the shadow by the door, hoping that he
+would move on and enable her to pass into her
+own room, came forward and stood beside her
+aunt. She had thought she would feel abashed
+before this man who had been wronged, but he
+had made her angry instead, and now she
+would not have left the room if he had asked
+her, or have told him the truth if he had
+begged for it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Many girls have been offered me,&rdquo; he
+went on excitedly, &ldquo;but I would not hear of
+them because you were beautiful, and I
+thought you would make a good wife. There
+was Annina Giannini; she had five thousand
+lire, and more to come, and now she is married
+to a doctor in Lucca. I gave her up for you,
+and you are dust of the streets.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Gemma flinched then as though he had
+struck her. The insult was flagrant, and it
+was time to make an end. She rose from her
+chair slowly, as though she were very tired,
+and filled her glass from the decanter on the
+table with a hand that trembled so that half
+the wine was spilled.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Orazio,&rdquo; she said, and her dark eyes sought
+his and held them so that he was compelled to
+stand still looking at her. &ldquo;Orazio, I hope
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
+you and your ugly fool of a mother will die
+slowly of a horrible disease, and be tormented
+in hell for ever. May your flesh be covered
+with sores while your bones rot and are gnawed
+by worms. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Cosi sia!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She crossed herself devoutly, and then
+drank some of the wine and flung the glass over
+her shoulder. It fell to the floor and crashed
+to splinters.</p>
+
+<p>The man&rsquo;s jaw dropped and his mouth fell
+open, but he had no words to answer her. She
+made a curious movement with her hands as
+though she would cleanse them of some impurity,
+and then turned and went quickly into
+her own room. They all heard the bolts
+drawn and the key turned in the lock.</p>
+
+<p>Olive was the first to speak, and her voice
+sounded strange and unnatural to herself.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She has said her say and left us, Signor
+Lucis. Will you not go too? You will not
+marry her. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Benissimo!</em> We wish you good-evening.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You are very easy, signorina <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mia</i>,&rdquo; he
+answered resentfully; &ldquo;but I cannot forgive.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Who asked your forgiveness?&rdquo; she retorted.
+&ldquo;It is you who should beg our
+pardon&mdash;you, who are so ready to believe the
+tales that are told in the <i>caf&eacute;s</i> and to come
+here to abuse helpless women. You are a
+coward, signore. Oh, how I hate men ...
+Judges in Israel ... I would have them stoned
+first. <em>What&rsquo;s that?</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>There was shouting in the street, and then
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
+a loud knocking on the house door. The
+women looked at each other with frightened
+eyes.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Carmela ran to Gemma&rsquo;s door and shook the
+handle, calling to her to come out. There was
+no answer, and perhaps they had a dreadful premonition
+of the truth even then; Olive left them
+huddled together like frightened sheep. The
+knocking still continued, and it sounded very
+loud when she came out of the flat on to the
+stairs. She was beside herself; that is, she
+was aware of two Olives, one who spoke in a
+strange voice and trembled, and was now going
+down into the darkness, stumbling at nearly
+every step and moaning incoherent prayers to
+God, and one who watched and listened and
+was surprised at what was said and done.</p>
+
+<p>When she opened the great house door a
+man stood aside to let her come out. She
+looked at him and knew him to be one of the
+neighbours, and she wondered why he had run
+out into the street in his shirt-sleeves. He
+was pale, too, and looked ill, and he seemed
+to want to speak to her, but she could not
+listen.</p>
+
+<p>A crowd had collected about something
+that was lying on the pavement near their
+house wall; Olive looked up and saw Gemma&rsquo;s
+window opened wide, and then she knew what
+it was. The people made way for her and let
+her come to where the dead thing lay on its
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
+back with the knees drawn up. Some woman
+had already covered the face with a handkerchief,
+and dark blood was oozing out from
+under it. Olive crouched down beside its
+pitiful disarray.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Will someone help me carry her into the
+house?&rdquo; she said.</p>
+
+<p>No one answered her, and after a while she
+spoke again.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Will someone fetch a doctor quickly?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is useless, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">figlia mia</i>; she is dead.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;At least&rdquo;&mdash;her voice broke, and she had
+to begin again, making a painful effort to
+control the words that she might be quite
+intelligible&mdash;&ldquo;at least help me to carry her
+in from the street. Is there no Christian
+here?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Two <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i> came running up now, and
+they made the people stand back so that a
+space of pavement was left clear; the younger
+man spoke to Olive.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We cannot move the body until the authorities
+come, signorina. It must stay where it is,
+but we shall guard it and keep the people off,
+and you can fetch a sheet from the house to
+cover it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, God!&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;when will they
+come?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He slightly shrugged his shoulders.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I do not know. We have sent to tell them.
+In a few minutes, perhaps, or in two hours,
+three hours.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And we must leave her here?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Yes, signorina.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I will get the sheet.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He helped her to rise from her knees.
+Looking down she saw a stain of blood on her
+skirt, and she clung to his arm for a moment,
+swaying as though she would fall. There was
+a murmur among the people of pity and sympathy.
+&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Poveretta! Che disgrazia!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Coraggio!</em>&rdquo; the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabiniere</i> said gently.</p>
+
+<p>Up again, up all the dark stairs, wondering
+if the others knew and were afraid to come
+down, wondering if there had been much pain,
+wondering if it was not all a dreadful dream
+from which she must wake presently. They
+knew.</p>
+
+<p>The younger girl met her cousin at the door;
+Maria had fainted, and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">la zia</i> was hysterical;
+as to Orazio, he was sitting on the sofa crying,
+with his mean, mouse-coloured head buried in
+the cushions.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I looked out of your bedroom window as I
+could not get into her room,&rdquo; whispered
+Carmela. &ldquo;Oh, Olive, what shall we do?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am going to take down a sheet as they
+will not let us bring her in. You can come
+with me, and we will stay beside her and say
+prayers.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, yes. Oh, Olive, that is a good idea.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The two came out into the street together
+and spread the white linen covering carefully
+over the stark body before they knelt, one on
+each side. Of the thousands who had filled
+the Piazzale at sunset hundreds came now to
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
+see them mourning the broken thing that lay
+between. Olive was aware of many faces, of
+the murmuring of a great crowd, and shame
+was added to the horror that held her fast.
+She folded her hands and tried to keep her
+eyes fixed upon them. Then she began to pray
+aloud.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur
+nomen tuum&mdash;</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The clear voice was tremulous at first, but it
+gathered strength as it went on, and Carmela
+said the words too. The men in the crowd
+uncovered, and the women crossed themselves.</p>
+
+<p>Rain was falling now, slowly at first and in
+heavy drops that splashed upon the stones,
+and there was a threatening sound&mdash;a rumbling
+of thunder&mdash;away in the south.</p>
+
+<p>Olive knew no more prayers in Latin, but
+her cousin began the Miserere.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam
+misericordiam tuam, et secundum multitudinem
+miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Among the many who had come to look their
+last upon the Odalisque were men who had
+made free with her poor name, had been
+unsparing in their utterance of the truth concerning
+her and ready to drag her down, and
+some of these moved away now shamefacedly,
+but more stayed, and one after another took
+up the words.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea: et a
+peccato meo munda me.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Gemma herself had trodden out the fire that
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
+consumed her, but who could dare say of the
+grey cold ashes, &ldquo;These are altogether vile.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Tibi soli peccavi, et malum coram te feci:
+ut justificeris in sermonibus tuis et vincas cum
+judicaris.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She had sinned, and she had been punished;
+she had suffered fear and shame.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor, lavabis
+me, et super nivem dealbabor.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>There had been some taint in her blood,
+some flaw in her will.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Cor mundum crea in me, Deus, et spiritum
+rectum innova in visceribus meis.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>A dark-eyed slender boy, wearing the green
+and white and scarlet of his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contrade</i>, pushed
+his way to the front presently. It was Romeo,
+and he carried a great bunch of magnolia
+blossoms.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, signorina,&rdquo; he said, half crying, &ldquo;the
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">alfieri</i> and I wanted to give you these because
+you brought us good luck so that we won the
+Palio. I little thought&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He stopped short, hesitating, and afraid to
+come nearer. He thought she looked like one
+of the stone angels that kneel on the sculptured
+tombs in the Campo Santo; her face seemed
+rough hewn in the harsh white glare of the
+electric light, so deep were the shadows under
+her eyes and the lines of pain about the praying
+lips. His heart ached with pity for her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Give them to me,&rdquo; she said, and he was
+allowed to come into the space that the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabiniere</i>
+kept clear.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
+He thrust the bunch hurriedly into her
+hands, faltering, &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio vi benedica</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Andatevi con Dio</i>,&rdquo; she replied, and then
+laid the pale flowers and the shimmering green
+crown of leaves down upon the still breast.
+&ldquo;Gemma, if ever I hurt you, forgive me now!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It was raining heavily, and as the sheet
+grew damp it clung more closely to the body
+of the girl who lay there with arms outstretched
+and knees drawn up as though
+she were nailed to a cross.</p>
+
+<p>The boy still lingered. &ldquo;You will be
+drenched. Go into the house,&rdquo; he urged.
+Then, seeing he could not move her, he took
+off his velvet embroidered cloak and put it
+about her shoulders. A woman in the crowd
+came forward with a shawl for Carmela.</p>
+
+<p>So the hours passed.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2 class="padtop">BOOK II.&mdash;FLORENCE</h2>
+
+
+
+<h3 class="padtop">CHAPTER I</h3>
+
+
+<p>October can be cold enough sometimes in the
+Val d&rsquo;Arno when the snow falls on the Apennines,
+and the woods of Vallombrosa are sere,
+and Florence, the flower city, lies then at the
+mercy of the winds. Mamie Whittaker, who,
+in her own phrase, &ldquo;hated to be blown about
+anyhow,&rdquo; had not been out all day. She
+lolled in an armchair before a crackling fire
+of olive wood in the room that she &ldquo;lit with
+herself when alone,&rdquo; though scarcely in the
+Tennysonian sense. Hers was a vivid personality,
+and older women who disliked her called
+her flamboyant, and referred to an evident
+touch of the tar-brush that would make her
+socially impossible in America though it
+passed unnoticed in Italy. Her age was
+seventeen, and she dressed after Carmen to
+please herself, and read Gyp with the same
+intention. She was absorbed now in <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les
+Amoureux</i>, and had to be told twice that her
+cousin had come before she would look up.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Miss Marvel? Show her in.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She rose and went forward to greet her
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
+relative, whom she had not seen for some
+years, and the two met at the door and kissed
+each other with enthusiasm.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Edna! My! Well, you have not grown
+anyway. What a tiny thing! Come and sit
+down right here.&rdquo; She rang for tea while her
+visitor slowly and rather shyly divested herself
+of her sables and laid them on a side table.
+Edna Marvel was the elder of the two by three
+years, but she was so small that she seemed a
+mere child. Her sallow little face resembled
+that of a tired monkey, yet it had an elfin
+charm, and her hands were beautiful as carved
+toys of ivory made in the East for a king&rsquo;s son
+to play with. They might hold a man&rsquo;s heart
+perhaps, but Mamie did not notice them, her
+own allurements being of more obvious description.</p>
+
+<p>She thought Edna was real homely, and her
+spirits rose accordingly. &ldquo;Where are you
+staying?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;At the Bristol. Poppa guessed we would
+take a villa later on if we felt like it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Mamie rang again. &ldquo;Bring some more
+cakes, and tell Miss Agar to come and pour
+out the tea.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Who is Miss Agar?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My companion, a sort of governess person.
+She takes me out walks, and sits by when my
+music-master comes, and so forth. She is new,
+and she won&rsquo;t do, but I may as well make her
+useful while she stays.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Why won&rsquo;t she do?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, she just won&rsquo;t. Momma don&rsquo;t
+like her much, and I&rsquo;m not singing her
+praises.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Edna looked curiously at the slender girl in
+the black dress who came in and took her
+place at the table.</p>
+
+<p>She said &ldquo;Good afternoon&rdquo; in her pleasant
+little voice.</p>
+
+<p>The governess person seemed rather surprised
+that she should address her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Good afternoon,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;Do you
+take milk and sugar?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Bring them round for us to help ourselves,&rdquo;
+dictated Mamie.</p>
+
+<p>Olive only smiled as she repeated her question,
+but Edna was distressed at her cousin&rsquo;s
+rudeness, and her sensitive face was quite pink
+as she hurriedly declined sugar. She came to
+the table to fetch her cup, but Miss Whittaker
+waited for hers to be brought to her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;How do you like this room, Edna? I had
+it fixed up for myself, and everything in it is
+mine.&rdquo; She looked complacently up at the
+hangings of primrose silk that hid the fifteenth
+century frescoes on the walls.</p>
+
+<p>Her cousin hesitated. &ldquo;I guess it must
+have cost some.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes. The Marchese does not like it. He
+is so set on his worm-eaten old tapestries and
+carved chairs, and he wanted momma to refurnish
+the palace to match, but not she!
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
+Louis Quinze, she said, and Louis Quinze it is,
+more or less. I tell the Marchese that if he is
+so fond of the musty Middle Ages he ought to
+go about in armour himself by rights. But
+the old sinner is not really a bit romantic.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It occurred to Olive that the right kind of
+governess would utter a word in season. &ldquo;It
+is not usual for young girls to refer to their
+stepfathers as you do,&rdquo; she said drily.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Wait until you know mine better,&rdquo; Mamie
+answered unabashed. &ldquo;Last night he said
+your complexion was miraculous. Next
+thing he&rsquo;ll try if it comes off. Are you coming
+to dinner to-night, Edna?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, auntie asked us. The&mdash;the Prince
+will be here, won&rsquo;t he?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Mamie looked down her nose. &ldquo;Oh,
+yes,&rdquo; she said carelessly. &ldquo;Your beau
+will come. People generally do when we
+ask them. The food is all right, and we
+have real good music afterwards sometimes.
+You know Avenel stays in Florence whiles
+because his brother has a Villa at Settignano.
+Well, momma guessed she would get him to
+play here for nothing once. Of course she
+was willing to pay any money for him really,
+but she just thought she would try it on. She
+asked him to dinner with a lot of other people,
+and made him take her in, though there were
+two Neapolitan dukes among the guests. The
+food was first-rate; she had told the cook to
+do his best, and she really thought the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entr&eacute;e</i>
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
+would have made Vitellius sit up. It was
+perfect. Well, afterwards she asked Avenel
+to play, and he just smiled and said he could
+not. Why, she said, he gave a recital the day
+before for nothing, for a charity, and played
+the people&rsquo;s souls out of their bodies, made
+them act crazy, as he always does. Couldn&rsquo;t
+he play for friendship? No, he said, he
+couldn&rsquo;t just then because one must be filled
+with sorrow oneself before one can make others
+feel, and he inferred that he had no room even
+for regret. &lsquo;I play Chopin on a biscuit,&rsquo; he
+said.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He must be rather a pig,&rdquo; was Edna&rsquo;s
+comment.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Not a bit of it. Momma said he really
+had not eaten much; in fact she had noticed
+that he left a bit of that lovely <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entr&eacute;e</i>. Perhaps
+he is afraid of getting fat. Momma was
+real mad with him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive&rsquo;s cheeks were flushed and her hands
+trembled as she arranged the cups on the tray.
+She was thankful for the shelter afforded by
+the great silver tea-pot. Mamie&rsquo;s back was
+turned to her, but Edna seemed desirous of
+including her in the conversation.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Have you heard Avenel, Miss Agar?&rdquo; she
+asked presently in her gentle, drawling way.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No. Is he very famous? I have never
+heard of him as a pianist.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, his professional name is Meryon, of
+course. He is billed as that and known all the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
+world over, though he only began to play in
+public three years ago when his wife left him.
+She was always a horrid woman, and she made
+him marry her when he was quite a boy, they
+say. They say he plays to forget things as
+other men take to drink. He has been twice
+to New York, and I know a girl who says he
+gave her a lock of his hair, but I don&rsquo;t believe
+her. It is dark brown, almost black, but I
+guess she cut it off a switch. He&rsquo;s not that
+kind.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive said nothing.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You need not stay if you don&rsquo;t want to,&rdquo;
+Mamie said unceremoniously. &ldquo;Be ready to
+come down after dinner. I might want you
+to play my accompaniments.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t think why you say she won&rsquo;t
+do,&rdquo; cried Edna when she was gone out
+of the room. &ldquo;I call her perfectly sweet.
+Rather sad-looking, but just lovely.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Mamie sniffed. &ldquo;Glad you admire her,&rdquo;
+she said.</p>
+
+<p>The governess was expected to appear at
+luncheon, but dinner was served to her in
+her own room, where she must sit in solitary
+state, dressed in her best and waiting for a
+summons, until eleven o&rsquo;clock, when she might
+assume that she would not be wanted and go
+to bed. This evening Olive lingered rather
+anxiously over her dressing, trying to make
+the best of herself, since it seemed that she
+was really to come down to-night into the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
+yellow drawing-room where she spent so many
+weary hours of a morning listening to Mamie
+scraping her Strad while the German who
+was supposed to teach her possessed his soul
+in patience. She put on her black silk dress.
+It was a guinea robe bought at a sale in
+Oxford Street the year before, a reach-me-down
+garment for women to sneer at and
+men to describe vaguely as something dark,
+and she hated the poor thing.</p>
+
+<p>Most women believe that the men who like
+them in cotton frocks would adore them in
+cloth of gold, and are convinced that the
+secret of Cleopatra&rsquo;s charm lay in her extensive
+wardrobe.</p>
+
+<p>Avenel. It had shocked Olive to hear his
+name uttered by alien lips, as it hurt her to suppose
+that he came often to the Palazzo Lorenzoni.
+She would not suppose it, and, indeed,
+nothing that Mamie had said could lead her to
+think that he was a friend of the family. They
+had clutched at him greedily, and he had repaid
+with an impertinence. That was all.</p>
+
+<p>The third footman, whose duty it was to
+attend upon her, brought two covered dishes
+on a tray at eight o&rsquo;clock, and soon after nine
+he came again to fetch her.</p>
+
+<p>There was a superabundance of gorgeous
+lackeys in the corridors that had been dusty
+and deserted five years before, and a gigantic
+<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Suisse</i> stood always on guard now outside
+the palace gates. The Marchesa would have
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
+liked to have had outriders in her scarlet
+livery when she went out driving in the
+streets of Florence, but her husband warned
+her that some mad anarchist might take her
+for the Queen, and so she contented herself
+with a red racing motor. The millions old
+Whittaker had made availed to keep his
+widow and the man who had given her a title
+in almost regal state. They entertained
+largely, and the Via Tornabuoni was often
+blocked with the carriages and motors that
+brought their guests. Olive, sitting alone in
+her chilly bedroom, mending her stockings
+or trying to read, heard voices and laughter
+as the doors opened&mdash;harsh Florentine and
+high English voices, and the shrill sounds of
+American mirth&mdash;night after night. But the
+Lorenzoni dined <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en famille</i> sometimes, as even
+marquises and millionaires may do, and
+there were but two shirt-fronts and comparatively
+few diamonds in the great golden
+shining room when she entered it.</p>
+
+<p>The Marchesa, handsome, hard-featured,
+gorgeous in grey and silver, did not choose to
+notice her daughter&rsquo;s governess; she was
+deep in talk with her brother-in-law; but
+men could not help looking at Olive. Mr
+Marvel stood up and bowed as she passed,
+and the silent, saturnine Marchese stared.
+His black eyes were intent upon her as she
+came to the piano where Mamie was restlessly
+turning over the music, and no one
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
+watching him could fail to see that he was
+making comparisons that were probably to
+the disadvantage of his step-daughter.</p>
+
+<p>Fast men are not necessarily fond of the
+patchouli atmosphere in their own homes, and
+somehow Mamie seemed to reek of that scent,
+though in fact she never used it. She was
+clever and fairly well educated, and she had
+always been sheltered and cared for, but she
+was born to the scarlet, and everything she
+said and did, her way of walking, the use she
+made already of her black eyes, proclaimed
+it. To-night, though she wore the red she
+loved&mdash;a wonderful, flaring frock of chiffon
+frills and flounces&mdash;she looked ill, and her dark
+face was sullen.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The beastly wind has given me a stiff
+neck,&rdquo; she complained. &ldquo;Here, I want to
+have this.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She chose a coon&rsquo;s lullaby out of the pile
+of songs, and Olive sat down obediently and
+began the accompaniment. It was a pretty
+little ditty of the usual moony order, and
+Mamie sang it well enough. Mr Marvel
+looked up when it was over to say, &ldquo;Thank
+you, my dear. Very nice.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is a silly thing,&rdquo; Mamie answered ungraciously.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll sing you a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">canzonetta</i> now.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She turned over the music, scattering
+marches and sonatas, and throwing some of
+them on the floor in her impatience. Olive,
+wondering at her temper, presently divined
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
+the cause of it. The folding doors that led
+into the library were half closed. No lamps,
+but a flicker of firelight and the hush of
+lowered voices, Edna&rsquo;s pleasant little pipe
+and a man&rsquo;s brief, murmured answers, and
+there were short spaces of silence too. The
+American girl and her prince were there.</p>
+
+<p>The Marchese had raised his eyebrows
+at the first words of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">canzonetta</i>, and at
+the end of the second verse he was smiling
+broadly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Little devil!&rdquo; he said.</p>
+
+<p>No one heard him. His wife was showing
+her brother-in-law some of her most treasured
+bits of china. She was quite calm, as though
+her knowledge of Italian was fair the Neapolitan
+dialect was beyond her. Mr Marvel, of
+course, knew not a syllable of any language
+but his own, and the slang of Southern gutters
+was as Greek to Olive. Their placidity
+amused the Marchese, and so did the thought
+of the little scene that he knew was being
+enacted in the library.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Shall we join the others now, Edna,
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carissima</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If&mdash;if you like.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He nearly laughed aloud as he saw the
+silk curtains drawn. The Prince stood aside
+to allow Edna to pass in first, and Olive,
+glancing up momentarily from the unfamiliar
+notes, saw the green gleam of an emerald on
+the strong brown hand as the brocaded folds
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
+were lifted up. Her own hands swerved,
+blundered, and she perpetrated a hopeless
+discord.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; she said confusedly.</p>
+
+<p>Mamie shrugged her shoulders. &ldquo;Never
+mind,&rdquo; she answered lightly. &ldquo;The last
+verse don&rsquo;t matter anyway. Come to here,
+Edna. Momma wants to hear your fiddle-playing.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, play us something, my dear.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The little girl came forward shyly.</p>
+
+<p>As the Prince and the Marchese stood
+together by the fireplace at the other end of
+the long room Mamie joined them. &ldquo;You
+sang that devil&rsquo;s nocturne inimitably,&rdquo; observed
+her stepfather, drily. &ldquo;I am quite
+sorry to have to ask you not to do it again.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Not again? Why not?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She perched herself on the arm of one of the
+great gilt chairs. The Prince raised his eyes
+from the thoughtful contemplation of her
+ankles to stare at her impudent red parted
+lips.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why not! Need I explain, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cara</i>? It
+was delicious; I enjoyed it, but, alas!&rdquo; He
+heaved an exaggerated sigh and then laughed,
+and the young man and the girl shared in his
+merriment.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am sorry to make so many mistakes,&rdquo;
+Olive said apologetically as she laboured
+away at her part of an easy piece arranged
+for violin and piano.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Oh, it is nothing. I have made ever so
+many myself, and I ought to have turned the
+page for you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The gentle voice was rather tremulous.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That was charming,&rdquo; pronounced the
+Marchesa. &ldquo;Now that sonata, Edna. I am
+so fond of it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Very well, auntie.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Prince had gone into the billiard-room
+with his host, and Mamie was with them.
+They were knocking the balls about and
+laughing ... laughing.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER II</h3>
+
+
+<p>In the Cascine gardens the lush green grass of
+the glades was strewn with leaves; soon the
+branches would be bare, or veiled only in
+winter mists, and the Arno, swollen with rain,
+ran yellow as Tiber. It was not a day for
+music, but the sun shone, and many idle
+Florentines drove, or rode, or walked by the
+Lung&rsquo;Arno to the Rajah&rsquo;s monument, passing
+and repassing the bench where Olive sat
+with Madame de Sarivi&egrave;re&rsquo;s stout and elderly
+German Fr&auml;ulein. Mamie was not far away;
+flamboyant as ever in her frock of crimson
+serge, her black curls tied with ribbon and
+streaming in the wind, she was the loud centre
+of a group of girls who played some running
+game to an accompaniment of shrill cries and
+little screams of laughter.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you like young girls?&rdquo; Olive asked
+the question impulsively, after a long silence.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am fond of my pupils; they are good
+little things, rather foolish, but amiable.
+But I understand your feeling, my poor Miss
+Agar. Your charge is&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive hesitated. &ldquo;It is a difficult age;
+and she has the body of twenty and the sense
+of ten. I am putting it very badly, but&mdash;but
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
+I was hateful years ago too. I think one
+always is, perhaps. I remember at school
+there were self-righteous little girls; they
+were narrow and intolerant, easily shocked,
+and rather bad-tempered. The others were
+absurdly vain, sentimental, sly. All that
+comes away afterwards if one is going to be
+nice.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They are female but not yet womanly. The
+newly-awakened instincts clamour at first for
+a hearing; later they learn to wait in silence,
+to efface themselves, to die, even,&rdquo; answered
+the Fr&auml;ulein, gravely.</p>
+
+<p>A victoria passed, then some youths on
+bicycles, shouting to each other and ringing
+their bells. They were riding all together, but
+they scattered to let Prince Tor di Rocca go by.
+He was driving tandem, and his horses were
+very fresh. Edna was with him, her small wan
+face rather set in its halo of ashen blonde hair
+and pale against the rich brown of her sables.</p>
+
+<p>When they came by the second time Mamie
+called to her cousin. The Prince drew rein,
+and the groom sprang down and ran to the
+leader&rsquo;s head.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My, Edna, how cold you look! It&rsquo;s three
+days since I saw you, but I guess Don Filippo
+has been doing the honours. Have you seen
+all the old galleries and things? Momma said
+she noticed you and uncle in a box at the
+Pergola last night.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She stood by the wheel, and as she looked
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
+up, not at Edna but at the Prince, he glanced
+smilingly down at her and then away
+again.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We are going back to the hotel now,&rdquo;
+Edna said. &ldquo;Will you come and have
+tea, Mamie? Is that Miss Agar over there?
+Ask her if you may, and if she will come
+too.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t need to ask her,&rdquo; the girl answered,
+but she went back nevertheless and spoke to
+Olive.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Can the groom take the cart home,
+Filippo? We will walk back with them.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, Bellina is in spirits, but she will not
+run away from Giovanni,&rdquo; he said, trying
+not to seem surprised that she should curtail
+their drive.</p>
+
+<p>They crossed the wide gravelled space
+outside the gardens and walked towards the
+town by the Lung&rsquo;Arno. Already the cypresses
+of San Miniato showed black against
+the sky, and the reflected flame of sunset was
+dying out in the windows of the old houses at
+the river&rsquo;s edge. All the people were going
+one way now, and leaving the tree-shadowed
+dusk for the brightly-lit streets, Via Tornabuoni,
+all palaces and antiquity shops, and
+Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where the band
+would play presently.</p>
+
+<p>The two American girls walked together
+with Don Filippo and Olive followed them.
+Edna held herself very erect, but Mamie
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
+seemed almost to lean backwards. She
+swayed her hips as she went and swung her
+short skirts, and there was affectation and a
+feverish self-consciousness in her every movement.
+Olive could not help smiling to herself,
+but she remembered that at school she had
+been afflicted with the idea that a pout&mdash;the
+delicious <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">moue</i> of fiction&mdash;became her,
+and so she was inclined to leniency. Only
+seventeen.</p>
+
+<p>The Prince wore riding gloves, and so the
+green gleam of his emerald was hidden from
+her. If only she could be sure that she had
+seen him before. What then? Nothing&mdash;if
+she could think that he would always be kind
+to gentle little Edna.</p>
+
+<p>Just before they reached the hotel Miss
+Marvel joined her, leaving her cousin to go on
+with Don Filippo, and began to talk to
+her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The river is just perfect at this hour. Our
+sitting-room has a balcony and I sat there last
+night watching the moon rise over San
+Miniato. I guess it looked just that way
+when Dante wrote his sonnets. Beatrice
+must have been real mad with him sometimes,
+don&rsquo;t you think so? She must have been
+longing to say, &lsquo;Come on, and don&rsquo;t keep
+talking.&rsquo; But she was a nice high-minded
+girl, and so she never did. She simply
+died.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If she died for him she must have been a
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
+fool,&rdquo; Olive said shortly. Her eyes were fixed
+on the Prince&rsquo;s broad back. He was laughing
+at some sally of Mamie&rsquo;s.</p>
+
+<p>Edna was shocked. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you just worship
+Dante?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; answered the elder girl. &ldquo;He
+was a dear, but even he was not worth that.
+At least, I don&rsquo;t know. He was a dear;
+but I was thinking of a girl I knew ...
+perhaps I may tell you about her some
+day.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, do,&rdquo; Edna said perfunctorily. She
+was trying to hear what her cousin was saying
+to Filippo, and wishing she could amuse him
+as well. They passed through the wide hall
+of the hotel and went up in the lift. The
+Marvels&rsquo; private sitting-room was on the
+second floor. They were much too rich to
+condescend to the palms and bamboo tables
+and wicker chairs of the common herd, and
+tea was served to Edna and her guests in a
+green and white boudoir that was, as the
+Marchesa might have said, more or less Louis
+Seize.</p>
+
+<p>Mr Marvel came in presently, refusing tea,
+but asking leave to smoke, and the Prince,
+gracefully deferential to his future father-in-law,
+listened to the little he had to say,
+answering carefully in his perfect English.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, sir. There is a great deal of poverty
+here. On my Tuscan estates too. Alas!
+yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
+Mamie sat near him, and in the flickering
+red light of the fire she looked almost
+pretty. Filippo&rsquo;s eyes strayed towards her
+now and then. Edna came presently to
+where Olive rested apart on the wide
+cushioned window-seat. &ldquo;Will you have
+some more tea?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, thank you. I think we must be going
+soon. The Marchesa will not like it if we stay
+out too long.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Edna hesitated. &ldquo;I wanted to ask you a
+silly question. Had you ever seen the Prince
+before last week?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>There was the slightest perceptible pause
+before Olive answered, &ldquo;No, never. Why
+do you ask?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I thought you looked as if you had somehow
+that night at the Lorenzoni palace.
+When we came in you were at the piano, and
+I thought you looked queer&mdash;as if&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; Olive said again, but she wondered
+afterwards if she had done right.</p>
+
+<p>On their way home Mamie drew her attention
+to a poster, and she saw the name of
+Meryon in great orange letters on a white
+ground.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He will be here before Christmas. I&rsquo;ll
+let you come with me to hear him play if you
+are good,&rdquo; she said, and she took the elder
+girl&rsquo;s hand in hers and pinched it. &ldquo;I could
+race you home down this side street, but I
+suppose I must not.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
+She was gay and good-humoured now, and
+altogether at her best, and Olive tried hard
+to like her, but she could not help seeing that
+the triumph that overflowed in easy, shallow
+kindness was an unworthy one.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER III</h3>
+
+
+<p>Olive sat alone at the end of one of the tiers
+of the stone amphitheatre built into the hill
+that rises, ilex clad, to the heights of San
+Giorgio. Some other women were there,
+mothers with young children, nurses and
+governesses dowdily dressed as she was in
+dark-coloured stuffs, but she knew none of
+them.</p>
+
+<p>Mamie seldom cared to come to the old Boboli
+gardens. Its green mildewed terraces and
+crumbling deities of fountain and ilex grove
+had no charm for her, and as a rule she and her
+friends preferred the crowded Lung&rsquo;Arno and
+Cascine on the days when there was music,
+but this Thursday she had suggested that they
+should come across the river.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Daisy Vereker has promised to meet me,
+and as she is only here a week on her way to
+school in Paris I should hate to disappoint
+her.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The two girls were lingering now about
+the grass arena, talking volubly, whispering,
+giggling. Miss Vereker&rsquo;s maid, a yellow-haired
+Swiss, sat not far off with her knitting,
+and every now and then she called harshly to
+her charge to know the time.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
+Olive sat very still, her hands clasped,
+her eyes fixed on the far horizon. She loved
+the old-world silence that was only broken
+by the dripping of water in the pools. No
+birds sang here, no leaves fell at the waning
+of the year. The seasons had little power over
+stained marble and moss, cypress, and ilex
+and olive, and as spring brought no riot of
+green and rose and gold in flower, so autumn
+took nothing away. Surely there were ghosts
+in the shadowed avenues, flitting in and out
+among the trees, joining hands to dance &ldquo;<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">la
+ronde</i>&rdquo; about the pool of Neptune. Gay
+abb&eacute;s, cavaliers, beautiful ladies of the late
+Renaissance, red-heeled, painted, powdered;
+frail, degenerate children of the hard-headed
+old Florentine citizens pictured in the frescoes
+of Giotto and Masaccio. No greater shades
+could come to Boboli.</p>
+
+<p>Florence was half hidden by the great
+yellow bulk of the Pitti palace, but Olive
+could see the slender, exquisite white and rose
+tower of Giotto, and the mellowed red of the
+cathedral&rsquo;s dome against the faint purple of
+the hills beyond Fiesole, and she looked at
+them in preference to the contorted river gods
+and exuberant nymphs of the fountain in the
+royal courtyard close by.</p>
+
+<p>After a while she opened her book and began
+to read. Presently she shivered; her jacket
+was thin, and the air grew chilly as the afternoon
+waned, but her reading absorbed her
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
+and she was surprised, when at last she raised
+her eyes, to see that the Pitti palace was
+already dark against the sky. Nurses and
+children were making their way out, and soon
+those who lingered would hear stentorian
+shouts from the gardeners, &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ora si chiude!</em>&rdquo;
+and they too would leave by one or other of
+the gates.</p>
+
+<p>Olive climbed down into the arena. Mamie
+was nowhere in sight, and Daisy Vereker and
+her maid were gone too. Olive, thinking
+that perhaps they might have gone up to the
+fountain of Neptune, began to climb the hill.
+She asked an old man who was coming down
+from there if he had seen two young ladies,
+one dressed in red.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, signorina.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She hurried back to the arena and spoke to
+a woman there. &ldquo;Have you seen a young
+lady in red with black curls?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She answered readily: &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sicuro!</em> She
+went towards the Porta Romana half an hour
+ago. I think the other signorina was leaving
+and she wished to accompany her a part of
+the way. There was an older person with
+them.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive&rsquo;s relief was only momentary; it
+sounded well, but one might walk to the
+Porta Romana and back twice in the time.
+Soon the gates would be closed, and if she
+had not found Mamie then, and the gardeners
+made her leave with the others, what should
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
+she do? She suspected a trick. The girl
+had a mischievous and impish humour that
+delighted in the infliction of small hurts, and
+she might have gone home, happy in the
+thought that her governess would get a
+&ldquo;wigging,&rdquo; or she might be hiding about
+somewhere to give her a fright.</p>
+
+<p>Olive went up the steep path towards the
+Belvedere, hoping to find her there. That
+part of the garden was not much frequented,
+and the white bodies and uplifted arms of the
+marble gods gleamed ghostly and forlorn
+in the dusk of the ilex woods that lay between
+the amphitheatre and the gate.</p>
+
+<p>She went on until she saw a glimmer of red
+through the close-woven branches. Mamie
+was there in the dark wood, and she was not
+alone. A man was with her, and he was
+holding her easily, as if he knew she would not
+go yet, and laughing as she stood on tiptoe
+to reach the fine cruel lips that touched
+hers presently, when he chose that they
+should.</p>
+
+<p>Olive turned and ran up the path to the
+top of the hill, and there she stood for a
+while, trying to get her breath, trying to be
+calm, and sane and tolerant, to see no harm
+where perhaps there was none after all. And
+yet the treachery and the deceit were so
+flagrant that surely no condonation was
+possible. She felt sick of men and women,
+and of life itself, since the greatest thing in it
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
+seemed to be this hateful, miscalled love that
+preceded sorrow and shame and death. Was
+love always loathsome to look upon? Not
+in pictures or on the stage, where it was represented
+as a kind of minuet in which the
+man makes graceful advances to a woman
+who smiles as she draws away, but in real
+life&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Not real love,&rdquo; she said to herself.
+&ldquo;Oh, God, help me to go on believing in
+that.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Raising her eyes she saw the evening star
+sparkling in a wide, soft, clear space of sky. It
+seemed infinitely pure and remote, and yet
+somehow good and kind, as it had to Dante
+when he climbed up out of hell.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ora si chiude!</em>&rdquo; bawled a gardener from
+the Belvedere.</p>
+
+<p>Mamie came hurrying up the path towards
+the hill. &ldquo;Oh, are you there?&rdquo; she said in
+some confusion. &ldquo;I went some of the way
+to the other gate with Daisy.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I was beginning to be afraid you were
+lost, so I came along hoping to meet you,&rdquo;
+answered Olive.</p>
+
+<p>She said nothing to the girl of what she
+had seen. It would have been useless;
+nothing could alter or abash her inherent
+unmorality. But after dinner she wrote a
+note to Edna and went out herself to
+post it.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
+The answer came at noon on the following
+day. Miss Marvel would be at home and
+alone between three and four and would be
+pleased to see Miss Agar then; meanwhile
+she remained very sincerely her friend.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3>
+
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why do you tell me this now?&rdquo; asked Edna.
+&ldquo;The other day when I asked you if you had
+known him before you said you had not.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Something that has happened since then
+determined me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Edna&rsquo;s room was full of flowers, roses,
+narcissi and violets, and the air was heavy
+with their scent. Filippo had never failed in
+his <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">petits soins</i>. It was so easy to give an
+order at the florist&rsquo;s, and the bill would come
+in presently, after the wedding, and be paid in
+American dollars. There were boxes of sweets
+too; and a volume of Romola, bound in white
+and gold, lay on the table. Edna had been
+looking at the inscription on the fly-leaf when
+Olive came in. &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carissima</i>&rdquo; he had written,
+and she had believed him, but that was half an
+hour ago. Now her small body was shaken
+with sobs, her face was stained with tears
+because that faith she had had was dying.</p>
+
+<p>The chill at her heart made her feel altogether
+cold, and she edged her chair nearer to
+the fire, and put her feet up on the fender.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I wish I could feel it was not true, but
+somehow though I have been so fond of him I
+have not trusted him. Well, your cousin was
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
+beautiful, and perhaps he had known her a
+long time before he knew me. He wanted to
+say good-bye kindly. He was entangled&mdash;such
+things happen, I know. He could not
+help what happened afterwards. That was
+not his fault.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive could not meet her pleading eyes.
+&ldquo;I thought something like that last week,&rdquo;
+she said. &ldquo;And that is why I kept silence;
+but now I know he would make you unhappy
+always. Oh, forgive me for hurting you so.&rdquo;
+She came and knelt down beside the little
+girl, and put her arms about her. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t
+cry, my dear. Don&rsquo;t cry.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, Olive, I was so fond of him! Now tell
+me what has happened since.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Put your hands in mine. There, I will rub
+the poor tiny things and warm them. They are
+so pretty. Yesterday, in the Boboli gardens,
+I missed your cousin, and when I went to look
+for her I saw her with the Prince. He held her
+and was kissing her.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; Edna sprang to her feet. &ldquo;That
+settles it. Mamie is common and real homely,
+and if he can run after her I have done
+with him. I could have forgiven the other,
+especially as she is dead, but Mamie! Gracious!
+Here he is!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He came into the room leisurely, smiling,
+very sure of his welcome. Olive met the hot
+insolence of his stare steadily, and Edna
+turned her back on him.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Olive,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you speak to him.
+Tell him&mdash;ask him&mdash;&rdquo; Her gentle voice broke.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; he asked carefully.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I saw you twice in Siena last summer.
+Do you remember <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Rigoletto</i> at the Lizza
+theatre? You were in the stage box. You
+wore evening dress, and I saw that emerald
+ring you have now on your finger. The next
+day you met my Cousin Gemma in my room
+in the Vicolo dei Moribondi. Do you remember
+the steep dark stairs and the white
+walls of the bare place where you saw her
+last?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He made no answer, and there was still a
+smile on his lips, but his eyes were hard.
+Edna was looking at him now, but he seemed
+to have forgotten her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I suppose you loved her,&rdquo; Olive said
+slowly. &ldquo;Do you remember the faint pink
+curve of her mouth, the little cleft in her chin,
+and her hair that was so soft and fine? There
+were always little stray curls on the white
+nape of her neck. I came to my room that
+morning to fetch a book. When I had climbed
+the stairs I found that I had not the key with
+me, but the door was unlocked and I saw her
+there with a man, and I saw the green gleam
+of an emerald.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Men have such a power of silence. No
+woman but would have made some answer
+now, denying with a show of surprise, making
+excuses, using words in one way or another.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
+&ldquo;They were talking about you in the town,
+though I think they did not know who you
+were&mdash;at least I never heard your name&mdash;and
+that night Gemma&rsquo;s <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fidanzato</i> told her he would
+not marry her. You know best what that
+meant to her. She rushed into her own room
+and threw herself out of the window. Ah,
+you should have seen the dark blood oozing
+through the fine soft curls! She lay dead
+in the street for hours before they took her
+away.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Santissimo Dio!</em> Is this true?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Gemma&mdash;I never knew it&mdash;&rdquo; His face
+was greatly altered now, and he had to
+moisten his lips before he could speak.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I could have forgiven that,&rdquo; Edna said
+tremulously after a while. &ldquo;But not yesterday.
+Your kisses are too cheap, Filippo.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; he said hoarsely. &ldquo;So Gemma&rsquo;s
+cousin saw that too. It was nothing, meant
+nothing. Edna, if you can pardon the other,
+surely&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It was nothing; and it proved that Mamie
+is nothing, and that you are nothing&mdash;to me.
+That is the end of the matter.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He winced now at the contempt underlying
+her quiet words, and when she took off
+her ring and laid it on the table between
+them he picked it up and flung it into the fire.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I do not take things back,&rdquo; he said
+savagely.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
+When he had left the room Edna began to
+cry again. &ldquo;I believe he is suffering now,
+but not for me. Would he care if I killed
+myself? I guess not. I am not pretty, only
+my hands, and hands don&rsquo;t count.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive tried to comfort her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Poppa shall take me away right now. I
+have had enough of Europe, and so I shall tell
+him when he comes in. Must you go now?
+Well, good-bye, my dear, and thank you.
+You are white all through, and I am glad you
+have acted as you have, though it hurts now.
+If ever I marry it shall be an American ...
+but I was real fond of Filippo.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER V</h3>
+
+
+<p>Cardinal Jacopo of Portugal was buried in
+a side chapel of the church of San Miniato
+al Monte, and his counterfeit presentment,
+wrought in stone, lies on the tomb Rossellino
+made for him. Rossellino, who loved to carve
+garlands of acanthus and small sweet <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">amorini</i>,
+has conferred immortality on some of the men
+whose tombs he adorned in <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">basso-rili&egrave;vo</i>, and
+they are remembered because of him; but
+the cardinal has another claim. He is
+beautiful in himself as he rests there, his
+young face set in the peace that passes all
+understanding, his thin hands folded on his
+breast.</p>
+
+<p>Mourners were kneeling in the central aisles
+of the church, and women carrying wreaths
+passed through it on their way to the Campo
+Santo beyond, for this was the day of All
+Souls, and there were fresh flowers on the
+new graves, and little black lamps were lit on
+those that were grass grown and decked only
+with the bead blossoms that are kept in glass
+cases and need not be changed once a year.
+The afternoon was passing, but still Olive
+lingered by the cardinal&rsquo;s monument. Looking
+at him understandingly she saw that
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
+there had been lines of pain about the firm
+mouth. He had suffered in his short life, he
+had suffered until death came to comfort him
+and give him quiet sleep. The mother-sense
+in her yearned over him, lying there straight
+and still, with closed eyes that had never seen
+love; and, womanlike, she pitied the accomplished
+loneliness that yet seemed to her the
+most beautiful thing in the world. The old
+familiar words were in her mind as she looked
+down upon this saint uncanonised: &ldquo;Cleanse
+the thoughts of my heart by the inspiration of
+thy Holy Spirit!&rdquo; and she remembered
+Astorre, for whose sake she had come to this
+church to pray. Once when she had been
+describing a haggard St Francis in the Sienese
+gallery to him, he had said: &ldquo;Ah, women
+always pity him and admire his picturesque
+asceticism, but if married men look worried
+they do not notice it. Their troubles are no
+compliment to your sex.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Poor Astorre had not been devout in any
+sense, but he had written his friend a long
+letter on the day after Gemma&rsquo;s suicide, and
+he had asked for her prayers then. &ldquo;Fausto
+told me how you knelt there in the street
+beside the dead Odalisque and said the Pater-noster
+and the Miserere. Perhaps you will
+do as much for me one day. Your prayers
+should help the soul that is freed now from
+the burden of the flesh. I cannot complain
+of flesh myself, but my bones weigh and I
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
+shall be glad to be rid of them. Come and
+see me soon, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carissima</i> ...&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The next morning his mother sent for the
+girl, but when she came into the darkened
+room where he lay he had already passed away.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He asked for you, but he would not see
+a priest. You know they refused to bury his
+father because he fought for united Italy.
+Ah! Rome never forgets.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>After the funeral Signora Aurelia had sold
+her furniture and gone away, and she was
+living now with a widowed sister in Rome.
+The Menotti had left Siena too and had gone
+to Milan, and Olive, not caring to stay on alone
+in the place where everyone knew what had
+happened, had come to the Lorenzoni in
+Florence. She had had a letter from Carmela
+that morning.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We like Milan as the streets are so gay,
+and the shops are beautiful. We should have
+got much better mourning here at Bocconi&rsquo;s
+if we could have waited, but of course that
+was impossible. Our apartment is convenient,
+but small and rather dark. Maria hopes you
+are fatter. She is going to send you some
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">panforte</i> and a box of sugared fruits at Christmas.
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">La Zia</i> has begun to crochet another
+counterpane; that will be the eighth, and we
+have only three beds. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Pazienza!</em> It amuses
+her.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Though Olive was not happy at the Palazzo
+Lorenzoni, she could not wish that she had
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
+stayed with her cousins. She felt that their
+little life would have stifled her. Thinking of
+them, she saw them, happier than before,
+since poor Gemma had not been easy to live
+with, and quite satisfied to do the same things
+every day, waddling out of a morning to
+early mass and the marketing, eating and
+sleeping during the noon hours, and in the
+evenings going to hear the music <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">in piazza</i>.</p>
+
+<p>Olive was not happy. She was one of those
+women whose health depends upon their
+spirits, and of late she had felt her loneliness
+to be almost unbearable. Her youth had
+cried for all, or nothing. She would have
+her love winged and crowned; he should come
+to her before all the world. Never would she
+set her foot in secret gardens, or let joy come
+to her by hidden ways, but now she faced the
+future and saw that it was grey, and she was
+afraid.</p>
+
+<p>It seemed to her that she was destined to
+live always in the Social Limbo, suspended
+between heaven and earth, an alien in the
+drawing-room and not received in the kitchen.
+One might as well be <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">d&eacute;class&eacute;e</i> at once, she
+thought, and yet she knew that that must be
+hell.</p>
+
+<p>If Avenel came to Florence and sought
+her out would she be weak as Gemma had
+been, light as Mamie was? Olive knelt for
+a while on the stones, and her lips moved,
+though her prayer was inarticulate.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
+Sunset was burning across the Val d&rsquo;Arno,
+and the river flowed as a stream of pure gold
+under the dark of the historic bridges.
+Already lights sparkled in the windows of the
+old houses over the Ponte Vecchio, and the
+bells of all the churches were ringing the Ave
+Maria as she passed through the whining crowd
+of beggars at the gate of the Campo Santo
+and went slowly down the hill. The blessed
+hour of peace and silence was over now, and
+she must trudge back through the clamorous
+streets to be with Mamie, to meet the
+Marchese&rsquo;s horribly observant eyes, and to be
+everlastingly quiet and complacent and useful.
+She was paid for that.</p>
+
+<p>She was going up to her room when the
+lodge porter ran up the stairs after her with a
+letter. &ldquo;For you, signorina.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It was from Edna.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Dear Olive</span>&rdquo;&mdash;she had written,&mdash;&ldquo;I
+could not wait for trains so papa has hired a
+car, and we shall motor straight to Genoa
+and catch the boat there. I want to go home
+to America pretty badly.&mdash;Your loving friend,</p>
+
+<p class="sig">&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Edna</span>.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i>P.S.</i>&mdash;I am still right down glad you told
+me.&mdash;E. M.&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>One of the servants came to Olive&rsquo;s room
+presently.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
+&ldquo;La Signora Marchesa wishes to see you at
+once in her boudoir.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Marchesa had come straight from the
+motor to her own room, her head was still
+swathed in a white veil, and she had not even
+taken off her heavy sable coat. She had
+switched on the light on her entrance, and now
+she was searching in the drawers of her bureau
+for her cheque-book.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, well, gold perhaps,&rdquo; she said after a
+while, impatiently, as she snapped open the
+chain purse that hung from her wrist. &ldquo;Is
+that you, Miss Agar?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive, seeing her counting out her money,
+like the queen in the nursery rhyme, had
+stopped short near the door. She paled a
+little as she understood this must be the
+sequel to what she had done, but she held her
+head high, and there was a light of defiance
+in the blue eyes.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have to speak to you very seriously.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Marchesa, a large woman, was slow
+and deliberate in all her movements. She
+took her place on a brocaded settee with the
+air of a statue of Juno choosing a pedestal,
+and began to draw off her gloves. &ldquo;I greatly
+regret that this should be necessary.&rdquo; She
+seemed prepared to clean Augean stables,
+and there was something judicial in her aspect
+too, but she did not look at Olive. &ldquo;You
+know that I took you into my house on the
+recommendation of the music-teacher, Signora
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
+Giannini. It was foolish, I see that now.
+It has come to my knowledge that you had no
+right to enter here, no right to be with my
+daughter.&rdquo; She paused. &ldquo;You must understand
+perfectly what I mean,&rdquo; she said impressively.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, I do not understand,&rdquo; the girl said.
+&ldquo;Will you explain, Marchesa?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Can you deny that you were involved in
+a most discreditable affair in Siena before you
+came here? That your intrigue&mdash;I hate to
+have to enter into the unsavoury details, Miss
+Agar, but you have forced me to it&mdash;that
+your intrigue with your cousin&rsquo;s <i>fianc&eacute;</i> drove
+her to suicide, and that you were obliged to
+leave the place in consequence?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is not true.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, but your cousin killed herself?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Her lover was in the house at the time,
+and you were there too?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You were at the theatre the night before
+and everyone noticed that he paid you great
+attention?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He? Oh,&rdquo; cried Olive, &ldquo;how horrible,
+and how clever!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The hard grey eyes met hers for a moment.</p>
+
+<p>The girl&rsquo;s pale face was flushed now with
+shame and anger. &ldquo;So clever! Will you
+congratulate the Prince for me, Marchesa?&rdquo;
+she said very distinctly.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
+&ldquo;You are impertinent. Of course, I cannot
+keep you. My daughter&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Marchesa saw her mistake as she made
+it and would have passed on, but Olive was
+too quick for her. She smiled. &ldquo;Your
+daughter! I do not think I can have harmed
+her.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You can take your money; I have left
+it there for you on the bureau. Please pack
+your boxes and be off as soon as possible.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am to leave to-night? It is dark
+already, and I have no friends in Florence.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Marchesa shrugged her shoulders. &ldquo;I
+can&rsquo;t help that,&rdquo; she said.</p>
+
+<p>Olive went slowly out into the hall, and stood
+there hesitating at the head of the stairs. She
+scarcely knew what to do or where to turn,
+but she was determined not to stay longer
+than she could help under this roof. She
+went down to the porter&rsquo;s lodge in the paved
+middle court.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Gigia!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The old woman came hobbling out to greet
+her with a toothless smile. &ldquo;Ah, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">bella
+signorina</i>, there are no more letters for you
+to-night. Have you come to talk to me for a
+little?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am going away,&rdquo; the girl answered
+hurriedly. &ldquo;Will your husband come in to
+fetch my luggage soon? At eight o&rsquo;clock?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Gigia laid a skinny hand on Olive&rsquo;s arm,
+and her sharp old eyes blinked anxiously
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
+as she said, &ldquo;Where are you going, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">nina
+mia</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Not to the Prince?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Good heavens! No!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrona</i> is hard&mdash;and you are
+pretty. I thought it might be that, perhaps.
+Don Filippo is like his old wolf of a
+father, and young lambs should beware of
+him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Can you tell me of some quiet, decent
+rooms where I can go to night?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sicuro!</em> My husband&rsquo;s brother keeps
+the Aquila Verde, and you can go there.
+Giovanni will give you his best room if he
+hears that you come from us, and he will not
+charge too much. I am sorry you are going,
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cara</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive squeezed her hand. &ldquo;Thank you,
+Gigia. You are the only one I am sorry to
+say good-bye to. I shall not forget you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Marchese was coming down the stairs
+as Olive went up again. He smiled at her
+as he stood aside to let her pass. &ldquo;You are
+late, are you not? I shall not tell tales but
+I hope for your sake that my wife won&rsquo;t see
+you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She won&rsquo;t see me again. I am going,&rdquo; she
+answered.</p>
+
+<p>He would have detained her. &ldquo;One
+moment,&rdquo; he said eagerly, but she was not
+listening. &ldquo;I shall miss you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
+After all she heard him. &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; she
+said gravely.</p>
+
+<p>A door was closed on the landing below, and
+the master of the house glanced at it apprehensively.
+He was not sure&mdash;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3>
+
+
+<p>The Aquila Verde was the oldest of the tall
+houses in the narrow Vicolo dei Donati; the
+lower windows were barred with iron worn by
+the rains of four hundred years, and there
+were carved marble pillars on either side of
+the door. The fa&ccedil;ade had been frescoed once,
+and some flakes of colour, red, green and
+yellow, still adhered to the wall close under the
+deep protecting eaves.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It was a palace of the Donati once,&rdquo; the
+host explained to Olive as he set a plate of
+steaming macaroni swamped in tomato sauce
+before her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I thought it might have been a convent,
+because of the long paved corridors and this
+great room that is like a refectory.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, the Donati lived here. Dante&rsquo;s wife,
+Gemma, perhaps. Who knows!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Ser Giovanni took up a glass and polished
+it vigorously with the napkin he carried always
+over his arm before he filled it with red
+Chianti. He had never had a foreigner in his
+house before, but he had heard many tales
+about them from the waiters in the great
+Anglo-American hotels on the Lung&rsquo;Arno,
+and he knew that they craved for warmth
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
+and an unlimited supply of hot water and tea.
+Naturally he was afraid of them, and he was
+also shy of stray women, but Olive was pretty,
+and he was a man, and moreover a Florentine,
+and his brother had come with her and had
+been earnest in his recommendations, so he
+was anxious to please her. &ldquo;There is no
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">dolce</i> to-night,&rdquo; he said apologetically. &ldquo;But
+perhaps you will take an orange.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When Olive went up to her room presently
+she found a great copper jar of hot water
+set beside the tiny washstand. The barred
+window was high in the thickness of the stone
+wall and the uncarpeted floor was of brick.
+The place was bare and cold as a cell, but the
+bed, narrow and white as that of Mary Mother
+in Rossetti&rsquo;s picture, invited her, and she
+slept well. She was awakened at eight o&rsquo;clock
+by a young waiter who brought in her coffee
+and rolls on a tray. She was a little startled
+by his unceremonious entrance, but it seemed
+to be so much a matter of course that she
+could not resent it. He took the copper jar
+away with him. &ldquo;The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrone</i> says you will
+want some more water,&rdquo; he said smilingly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes. But&mdash;but if you bring it back you
+can leave it outside the door.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The coffee was not good, but it was hot, and
+the rolls were crisp and delicious, and Olive
+ate and drank happily and with an excellent
+appetite. No more listening to mangled scales
+and murdered nocturnes and sonatas, no more
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
+interminable meals at which she must sit
+silent and yet avoid &ldquo;glumness,&rdquo; no more
+walking at Mamie&rsquo;s heels.</p>
+
+<p>She was free!</p>
+
+<p>Presently she said to herself, more soberly,
+that nevertheless she must work somehow to
+gain her livelihood. Yes, she must find work
+soon. The Aquila Verde would shelter and
+feed her for six lire a day. Her last month&rsquo;s
+salary of eighty lire had been paid her four
+days ago, and she had already spent more
+than half of it on things she needed, new boots,
+an umbrella, gloves, odds and ends. This
+month&rsquo;s money had been given her last night,
+and she had left a few lire for the servant who
+had always brought up her dinner to her
+room, and had made Gigia a little present.
+The cabman had bullied her into giving him
+two lire. She had about one hundred remaining
+to her. Sixes into one hundred....
+Working it out carefully on the back of an old
+envelope she found that she might live on her
+means for sixteen days, and then go out into
+the streets with four lire in her pocket&mdash;no,
+three, since she could scarcely leave without
+giving a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mancia</i> to the young man whom she
+now heard whistling &ldquo;Lucia&rdquo; in the corridor.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The hot water, signorina.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A thousand thanks.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Surely in a few days she would find work.
+It occurred to her that she might advertise.
+&ldquo;Young English lady would give lessons.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
+Terms moderate. Apply O. A., Aquila Verde.&rdquo;
+She wrote it out presently, and took it herself
+to the office of one of the local papers.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have saved fifteen centesimi,&rdquo; she
+thought as she walked rather wearily back
+by the long Via Cavour.</p>
+
+<p>Three days passed and she was the poorer
+by eighteen lire. On Sunday she spent the
+morning at the Belle Arti Gallery. Haggard
+saints peered out at her from dark corners.
+Flora smiled wistfully through her tears;
+she saw the three strong archangels leading
+boy Tobias home across the hills, and Angelico&rsquo;s
+monks and nuns meeting the Blessed Ones in
+the green, daisied fields of Paradise, and for a
+little while she was able to forget that no one
+seemed to want English lessons.</p>
+
+<p>On Monday she decided that she must leave
+the Aquila Verde if she could find anyone to
+take her for four, or even three lire a day.
+She went to Cook&rsquo;s office in the Via Tornabuoni;
+it was crowded with Americans come
+for their mails, and she had to wait ten
+minutes before one of the young men behind
+the counter could attend to her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What can I do for you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Can you recommend me to a very cheap
+<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pension</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She noticed a faint alteration in his manner,
+as though he had lost interest in what she was
+saying, but when he had looked at her again he
+answered pleasantly, &ldquo;There is Vinella&rsquo;s in
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
+the Piazza Indipendenza, six francs, and there
+is another in the Via dei Bardi, I think; but
+I will ask. Excuse me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He went to speak to another clerk at the
+cashier&rsquo;s desk. They both stared across at
+her, and she fancied she heard the words,
+pretty, cheap enough, poor.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;There is a place in the Via Decima kept by
+a Frau Heylmann. I think it might suit you,
+and I will write the address down. It is really
+not bad and I can recommend it as I am
+staying there myself,&rdquo; he added ingenuously.
+He seemed really anxious to help now, and
+Olive thanked him.</p>
+
+<p>As she went out she met Prince Tor di Rocca
+coming in. Their eyes met momentarily and
+he bowed. It seemed strange to her afterwards
+when she thought of it, but she fancied
+he would have spoken if she had given him an
+opportunity. Did he want to explain, to tell
+more lies? She had thought him too strong
+to care what women thought of him once they
+had served him and been cast aside. True,
+she was not precisely one of these.</p>
+
+<p>The Via Decima proved to be one of the wide
+new streets near the Porta San Gallo. No.
+38 was a pretentious house, a tenement
+building trying to look like a palace, and it
+was plastered over with dingy yellow stucco.
+Olive went through the hall into a courtyard
+hung with drying linen, and climbed up an
+outside iron staircase to the fifth floor. There
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
+was a brass plate on the Frau&rsquo;s door, and
+Canova&rsquo;s Graces in terra cotta smirked in
+niches on either side. The large pale woman
+who answered the bell wore a grey flannel
+dressing-gown that was almost buttonless,
+and her light hair was screwed into an absurdly
+small knot on the nape of her neck.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You want to be taken <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en pension</i>? Come
+in.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She led the way into a bare and chilly
+dining-room; the long table was covered
+with black American cloth that reminded
+Olive of beetles, but everything was excessively
+clean. There was a framed photograph
+of the Kaiser on the sideboard. In a
+room beyond someone was playing the violin.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;How many are you in family?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am alone.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Frau looked down at the gloved hands.
+&ldquo;You are not married?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The woman hesitated. &ldquo;You would be out
+during the day?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; Olive said hopefully. &ldquo;I shall
+be giving lessons.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, well, perhaps&mdash;&nbsp;What would you
+pay?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am poor, and I thought you would say as
+little as possible. I should be glad to help you
+in the house.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;There is a good deal of mending,&rdquo; the
+Frau said thoughtfully; &ldquo;and you might clean
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
+your own room. Shall we say twenty-four
+lire weekly?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The playing in the other room ceased, and
+a young man put his head in at the door.
+&ldquo;<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Mutter</i>,&rdquo; he said, and then begged her
+pardon, but he did not go away.</p>
+
+<p>Olive tried not to look at him, but he was
+staring at her and his eyes were extraordinarily
+blue. He was pale, and his wide brows and
+strong cleft chin reminded her of Botticelli&rsquo;s
+steel-clad archangel. He wore his smooth fair
+hair rather long too, in the archangelic manner,
+he&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Paid in advance,&rdquo; Frau Heylmann said
+very sharply. Then she turned upon her son.
+&ldquo;What do you want, Wilhelm?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, I can wait,&rdquo; he said easily.</p>
+
+<p>She snorted. &ldquo;I am sorry I cannot receive
+you,&rdquo; she said to the girl. &ldquo;I am not
+accustomed to have young women in my
+house. No.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She waddled to the door and Olive followed
+her meekly, but she could not keep her lips
+from smiling. &ldquo;I do not blame you,&rdquo; she
+said as she passed out on to the landing.
+&ldquo;Your son is charming.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The woman looked at her more kindly now
+that she was going. &ldquo;He is beautiful,&rdquo; she
+said, with pride. &ldquo;Some day he will be great.
+<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Ach!</i> You should hear him play!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive laughed. &ldquo;You would not let me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She could not take this rebuff seriously, but
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
+as she trudged the streets in the thin cold rain
+that had fallen persistently all that morning
+her sense of humour was blunted by discomfort.
+The long dark, stone-paved hall
+that was the restaurant of the Aquila Verde
+seemed cold and cheerless. At noon it was
+always full of hungry men devouring macaroni
+and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vitello alla Milanese</i>, and the steam of hot
+food and the sound of masticating jaws
+greeted Olive as she came in and took her place
+at a little table near the stove.</p>
+
+<p>The young waiter, Angelo, brought her a cup
+of coffee after the cheese and celery. &ldquo;It
+gives courage,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;And I see you need
+that to-day, signorina.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3>
+
+
+<p>Olive saw the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrone</i> of the Aquila Verde
+that night before she went to her room and
+told him she was leaving.</p>
+
+<p>His face fell. &ldquo;Signorina! I am sorry!
+I told Angelo to bring hot water every time,
+always, when you rang. Have you not been
+well served?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She reassured him on that point and went
+on to explain that she was going to live alone.
+&ldquo;I have made arrangements,&rdquo; she added
+vaguely. &ldquo;A man will come with a truck
+to take my box away to-morrow morning.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>And the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrone</i> was too much a man of
+his world to ask any more questions.</p>
+
+<p>There had been no rooms vacant in the
+<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pension</i> in Piazza Indipendenza. The manservant
+who answered the door had recommended
+an Italian lady who took paying
+guests, and Olive had gone to see her, but her
+rooms were small, dark and dingy, and they
+smelt overpoweringly of sandal wood and rancid
+oil. The shabbily-smart <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrona</i> had been
+voluble and even affectionate. &ldquo;I am so fond
+of the English,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;My husband is
+much occupied and I am often lonely, but we
+shall be able to go out together and amuse
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
+ourselves, you and I. I had been hoping to
+get an invitation to go to the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Trecento</i> ball at
+the Palazzo Vecchio, but Luigi cannot manage
+it. Never mind! We will go to all the
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Veglioni</i>. I love dancing.&rdquo; She looked complacently
+down at her stubby little feet in
+their down-at-heel beaded slippers.</p>
+
+<p>Olive had been glad to get away when she
+heard the impossible terms, but the afternoon
+was passing, and when she got to the house
+in the Via dei Bardi she saw bills of sale
+plastered on its walls and a litter of straw and
+torn paper in the courtyard. The porter
+came out of his lodge to tell her that one of the
+daughters had died.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They all went away, and the furniture was
+sold yesterday.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>As Olive had never really wished to live
+and eat with strangers she was not greatly
+depressed by these experiences, but she was
+cold and tired, and her head ached, and when
+on her way back to the Aquila Verde she saw
+a card, &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Affitasi, una camera, senza mobilia</i>,&rdquo;
+in the doorway of one of the old houses in the
+Borgo San Jacopo, she went in and up the long
+flight of steep stone stairs without any definite
+idea of what she wanted beyond a roof to
+shelter her.</p>
+
+<p>A shrivelled, snuffy old woman showed her
+the room. It was very large and lofty, and
+it had two great arched windows that looked
+out upon the huddled roofs of Oltr&rsquo;Arno.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
+The brick floor was worn and weather-stained,
+as were the white-washed walls.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It was a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">loggia</i>, but some of the arches
+have been filled in and the others glazed. Ten
+lire a month, signorina. As to water, there is
+a good fountain in the courtyard.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive moved in next day.</p>
+
+<p>Heaven helps those who help themselves,
+she thought, as she borrowed a broom from
+her landlady to sweep the floor. The morning
+was fine and she opened the windows wide
+and let the sun and air in. At noon she went
+down into the Borgo and bought fried <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">polenta</i>
+for five soldi and a slice of chestnut cake at the
+cook shop, and filled her kettle with clear cold
+water from the fountain in the courtyard.</p>
+
+<p>Later, as she waited for the water to boil
+over her little spirit lamp, she made a list of
+absolute necessaries. She had paid a month&rsquo;s
+rent in advance, and fifty-three lire remained
+to her. Fifty-three lire out of which she must
+buy a straw mattress, a camp-stool, two
+blankets, some crockery and soap.</p>
+
+<p>She went out presently to do her shopping
+and came back at dusk. She was young
+enough to rather enjoy the novelty of her
+proceedings, and she slept well that night on
+the floor, pillowless, and wrapped in her coarse
+brown coverings; and though the moon shone
+in upon her through the unshuttered windows
+for a while she did not dream or wake until the
+dawn.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
+Olive tried very hard to get work in the days
+that followed, and she went twice to the
+registry office in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, you were here before.&rdquo; A stout
+woman came bustling out from the room
+behind the shop to speak to her the second
+time. &ldquo;There is nothing for you, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">signorina
+mia</i>. The ladies who come here will not take
+anyone without a character, and a written
+reference from Milan or Rome is no good. I
+told you so before. Last winter Contessa
+Foscoli had an English maid with a written
+character&mdash;not from us, I am glad to say&mdash;and
+she ran away with the chauffeur after a
+fortnight, and took a diamond ring and the
+Contessa&rsquo;s pearls with her. If you cannot tell
+me who you were with last I shall not be able
+to help you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The Marchesa Lorenzoni,&rdquo; Olive said.</p>
+
+<p>The woman drew in her breath with a hissing
+noise, then she smiled, not pleasantly. &ldquo;Why
+did you not say so before? I have heard of
+you, of course. The little English girl! Well,
+I can&rsquo;t help you, my dear. This is a registry
+office.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive walked out of the shop at once, but
+she heard the woman calling to someone in the
+room at the back to come and look at her, and
+she felt her cheeks burning as she crossed the
+road. &ldquo;The little English girl!&rdquo; What were
+they saying about her?</p>
+
+<p>One morning she went into one of the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
+English tea-rooms. It was kept by two
+elderly maiden ladies, and one of them came
+forward to ask her what she wanted. The
+Pagoda was deserted at that hour, a barren
+wilderness of little bamboo tables and chairs,
+tea-less and cake-less. The walls were distempered
+green and sparsely decorated with
+Japanese paper fans, and Olive noticed them
+and the pattern of the carpet and remembered
+them afterwards as one remembers the frieze,
+the engravings, the stale periodicals in a
+dentist&rsquo;s waiting-room.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do&mdash;do you want a waitress?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The older woman&rsquo;s face changed. Oh, that
+change! The girl knew it so well now that she
+saw it ten times a day.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No. My sister and I manage very well,
+and we have an Italian maid to do the washing
+up.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; Olive said, faltering. &ldquo;You
+don&rsquo;t know anyone who wants an English girl?
+I have been very well educated. At least&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am afraid not.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Poor Olive. She was an unskilled workwoman,
+not especially gifted in any way or
+fitted by her upbringing to earn her daily
+bread. Long years of her girlhood had been
+spent at a select school, and in the result she
+knew a part of the Book of Kings by heart,
+with the Mercy speech from the <i>Merchant of
+Venice</i> and the date of the Norman Conquest.
+Every day she bought the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Fieramosca</i>, and
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
+she tried to see the other local papers when
+they came out. Several people advertised
+who wanted to exchange lessons, but no one
+seemed inclined to pay. Once she saw names
+she knew in the social column.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>&ldquo;The Marchese Lorenzoni is going to
+Monte Carlo, and he will join the Marchesa and
+Miss Whittaker in Cairo later in the season.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Prince Tor di Rocca is going to Egypt for
+Christmas.&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>It was easy to read between the lines.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3>
+
+
+<p>Florence, in the great days of the Renaissance,
+bore many men whom now she delights
+to honour, and Ugo Manelli was one of these.
+He helped to build a bridge over the Arno, he
+had his palace in the Corso frescoed by
+Masaccio, he framed sumptuary laws, and he
+wrote sonnets, charming sonnets that are still
+read by the people who care for such things.
+The fifth centenary of his birthday, on the
+twenty-eighth of November, was to be kept
+with great rejoicings therefore. There were
+to be fireworks and illuminations of the streets
+for the people, and a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Trecento</i> costume ball
+at the Palazzo Vecchio for those who had
+influence to procure tickets and money to pay
+for them.</p>
+
+<p>Mamie, greatly daring, proclaimed her intention
+of wearing the &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">umile ed onesto
+sanguigno</i>&rdquo; of Beatrice.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You will be my Dante, Don Filippo?
+Momma is going in cloth of gold as Giovanna
+degli Albizzi.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Marchese looked inquiringly at the
+Prince. &ldquo;Shall you add to the gaiety of
+nations, or at least of Florence?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The young man shrugged his broad shoulders.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I suppose so.&rdquo; He was well established as
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cavalier servente</i> now in the Lorenzoni household,
+and it was understood that Mamie would
+be a princess some day. The girl was so
+young that the engagement could scarcely
+be announced yet.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I guess we must wait until you are
+eighteen, Mamie,&rdquo; her mother said. &ldquo;Keep
+him amused and don&rsquo;t be exacting or he&rsquo;ll
+quit. He is still sore from his jilting.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I can manage him,&rdquo; the girl boasted, but
+she had no real influence over him now. The
+forbidden fruit had allured him, but since it
+was his for the gathering it seemed sour&mdash;as
+indeed it was, and he was not the man to
+allow himself to be tied to the apron-strings of
+a child. When he was in a good humour he
+watched his future wife amusedly as she
+metaphorically and sometimes literally danced
+before him, but he discouraged the excess of
+audacity that had attracted him formerly,
+perhaps because he scarcely relished the idea
+of a Princess Tor di Rocca singing, &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">O che la
+gioia mi f&egrave; morir</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Probably he regretted gentle, amenable
+Edna. At times he was grimly, impenetrably
+silent, and often he said things that would have
+wounded a tender heart past healing. Fortunately
+there were none such in the Palazzo
+Lorenzoni.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I shall be ridiculous as the Alighieri, and
+you must forgive me, Mamie, if I say that one
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
+scarcely sees in you a reincarnation of Monna
+Beatrice.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Red is my colour,&rdquo; the girl answered
+rather defiantly.</p>
+
+<p>The Marchese laughed gratingly.</p>
+
+<p>Filippo dined with the Lorenzoni on the
+night of the ball. He wore the red <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">lucco</i>, but
+had declined to crown himself with laurel.
+His gaudy Muse, however, had no such
+scruples, and her black curls were wreathed
+with silver leaves. The Prince was not the
+only guest; there was a slender, flaxen-haired
+girl from New York dressed after Botticelli&rsquo;s
+Judith, an artillery captain as Lorenzo dei
+Medici, and another man, a Roman, in the
+grey of the order of San Francesco.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Poppa left for Monte this morning,&rdquo;
+Mamie explained over the soup. &ldquo;He
+reckoned dressing up was just foolishness, but
+the fact is armour is hot and heavy, and he
+would have had to pass from trousers into
+greaves. He has not got the right kind of legs
+for parti-coloured hosen, someway.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Piazza della Signoria was crowded as it
+had been on that dreadful May day when
+Girolamo&rsquo;s broken body was burnt to ashes
+there; as it was on the afternoon of the Pazzi
+conspiracy, when a bishop was hanged from
+one of the windows of the old Palazzo. But
+the old order had changed, giving place to new
+even here, and the people had come now
+merely to see the fine dresses; there was no
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
+thought of murder, though there might be
+some picking of pockets. The night was still
+and cold, and the white, round moon that had
+risen above the roof of the Loggia dei Lanzi
+shone, unclouded, upon the restless human
+sea that divided here and there to let the
+carriages and motors pass. The guests
+entered by the side door nearest the Uffizi,
+and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i> kept the way clear. The
+crowd was dense thereabouts, and the people
+pushed and jostled one another, leaned
+forward, and stood on tiptoe to see the brocaded
+ladies in their jewelled coifs and the men,
+hooded and strange, in their gay medi&aelig;val
+garb.</p>
+
+<p>The Marchesa&rsquo;s cloth of gold drew the
+prolonged &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; of admiration that is only
+accorded to the better kind of fireworks, and
+hearing it, she smiled, well satisfied. Mamie
+followed with Filippo. Her dress of rose-coloured
+brocade was exquisite. It clung to
+her and seemed to be her one and only garment;
+one could almost see the throb of her heart
+through the thin stuff. She let her furred
+cloak fall as she got out of the car and then
+drew it up again about her bare arms and
+shoulders.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Who is the black-curled scarlet thing?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Beatrice.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What! half naked! She is more like one
+of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">donnine</i> in the <i>Decameron</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Her Dante, overhearing, hurried her up the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
+steps. His eyes were bright with anger in
+the shadow of his hood, but they changed and
+darkened as he caught sight of one girl&rsquo;s face
+in the crowd. At the foot of the grand staircase
+he turned, muttering some excuse and
+leaving Mamie and her mother to go up alone,
+and hurried back and out into the street. He
+stood aside as though to allow some newcomers
+to pass in. The girl he had come to
+see was close to him, but she was half hidden
+behind a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabiniere&rsquo;s</i> broad epauletted
+shoulders.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Scusi</i>,&rdquo; murmured the Prince as he leant
+across the man to pull at her sleeve. &ldquo;I
+must see you,&rdquo; he said urgently. &ldquo;When?
+Where?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;When you like,&rdquo; she answered, but her
+eyes were startled as they met his. &ldquo;No.
+27 Borgo San Jacopo. The only door on the
+sixth landing.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Very well. To-night, then, and in an
+hour&rsquo;s time.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The press of incoming masqueraders screened
+them. The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabiniere</i> knew the Prince by
+sight, and he listened with all his might, but
+they spoke English, and he dared not turn to
+stare at the girl until the tall figure in the red
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">lucco</i> had passed up the steps and gone in
+again, and by that time she had slipped away
+out of sight.</p>
+
+<p>Filippo came to the Borgo a little before
+midnight and crossed the dingy threshold of
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
+No. 27 as the bells of the churches rang out the
+hour. The old street was quiet enough now
+but for the wailing of some strayed and starving
+cats that crept about the shadowed courts
+and under the crumbling archways, and the
+departing cab woke strange echoes as it rattled
+away over the cobble stones.</p>
+
+<p>The only door on the sixth landing was
+open.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What are you doing here?&rdquo; Filippo said,
+wonderingly, as he groped his way in. The
+room was in utter darkness but for one ray of
+moonlight athwart it and the faint light of
+the stars, by which he saw Olive leaning
+against the sill of one of the unshuttered
+windows, and looking, as it seemed, towards
+him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You need not be
+afraid of falling over the furniture. There is
+not much.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You seem partial to bare attics.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah! you are thinking of my room in the
+Vicolo dei Moribondi.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes!&rdquo; he said as he came towards her
+from the door. &ldquo;I cannot rest, I cannot forget.
+For God&rsquo;s sake tell me about the end! I
+have been to Siena since I heard, but I dared
+not ask too many questions. Was she&mdash;did
+she suffer very much before she died?
+Answer me quickly.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Throw back your hood,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Let
+me see your face.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
+Impatiently he thrust the folds of white
+and scarlet away and stood bare-headed. She
+saw that his strong lips quivered and that his
+eyes were contracted with pain.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, she died instantly. They said at the
+inquest that it must have been so.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Her face&mdash;was she&mdash;&rdquo; his voice broke.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I did not see it. It was covered by a
+handkerchief,&rdquo; she said gently. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t!
+Don&rsquo;t! I did not think you would suffer so
+much.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I suffer horribly day and night. Love is
+the scourge of the world in the hands of the
+devil. That is certain. She is buried near
+the south wall of the Campo Santo. Oh, God!
+when I think of her sweet flesh decaying&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive, scarcely knowing what she did, caught
+at his hand and held it tightly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hush, oh, hush!&rdquo; she said tremulously.
+She felt as though she were seeing him racked.
+&ldquo;I do believe that her soul was borne into
+heaven, God&rsquo;s heaven, on the day she died.
+She was forgiven.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Heaven!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Where is heaven?
+I am not guilty of her death. She was a fool
+to die, and I shall not soon forgive her for leaving
+me so. If she came back I would punish
+her, torment her, make her scream with pain&mdash;if
+she came back&mdash;oh, Gemma!&mdash;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carissima</i>&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The hard, hot eyes filled with tears. He
+tried to drag his hand away, but the girl held
+it fast.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
+&ldquo;You are kind and good,&rdquo; he said presently
+in a changed voice. &ldquo;I am sorry if I did you
+any harm with the Lorenzoni, but the woman
+told me she meant to send you away in any
+case because of the Marchese.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Then, as he felt the clasp of her fingers
+loosening about his wrist, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let go,&rdquo; he
+said quickly. &ldquo;Is he really going to take you
+to Monte Carlo with him?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Does his wife say so? Do you believe
+it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He answered deliberately. &ldquo;No, not now.
+But you cannot go on living like this.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was right. She could not go on. Her
+little store of coppers was dwindling fast, so
+fast that the beggars at the church doors
+would soon be richer than she was. And she
+was tired of her straits, tired of coarse food
+and a bare lodging, and of the harsh, clamorous
+life of the streets. The yoke of poverty was
+very heavy.</p>
+
+<p>Filippo drew a little nearer to her. &ldquo;I
+could make you love me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Never.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He made no answer in words but he caught
+her to him. She lay for a moment close in
+his arms, her heart beating on his, before she
+cried to him to let her go.</p>
+
+<p>He released her instantly. &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I must light the lamp,&rdquo; she said unsteadily.
+She was afraid now to be alone with him in the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
+dim, starlit room, and she fumbled for the
+matches. He stood still by the window
+waiting until the little yellow flame of the
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">lucerna</i> burnt brightly on the floor between
+them, then he smiled at her, well pleased at her
+pallor. &ldquo;You see it would be easy,&rdquo; he
+said.</p>
+
+<p>She answered nothing.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am going to Naples to-morrow by the
+afternoon train. Will you come with me?
+We will go where you like from there, to Capri,
+or to Sicily; and you will help me to forget,
+and I will teach you to live.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>There was silence between them for a while.
+Olive stared with fascinated eyes at this tall,
+lithe man whose red <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">lucco</i>, falling in straight
+folds to his feet, became him well. The upper
+part of his face was in shadow, and she saw
+only the strong lines of the cleft chin, and the
+beautiful cruel lips that smiled at her as though
+they knew what her answer must be.</p>
+
+<p>She was of those who are apt to prefer one
+hour of troubled joy to the long, grey, eventless
+years of the women who are said to be happy
+because they have no history, and it seemed
+to her that the moment had come when she
+must make a choice. This love was not what
+she had dreamed of, longed for; other lips,
+kinder and more true, should have set their
+seal on her accomplished womanhood. She
+knew that this that was offered was a perilous
+and sharp-edged thing, a bright sheath that
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
+held a sword for her heart, and yet that heart
+sang exultantly as it fluttered like a wild bird
+against the bars of its cage. It sang of youth
+and life and joy that cares not for the morrow.</p>
+
+<p>It sang.</p>
+
+<p>Filippo watched her closely and he saw that
+she was yielding. Her lips parted, and instinctively
+as he came towards her she closed
+her eyes so nearly that he saw only a narrow
+line of blue gleaming between her lashes.
+But as he laid his hands upon her shoulders
+something awoke within her, a terror that
+screamed in her ears.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am afraid,&rdquo; she said brokenly. &ldquo;Leave
+me and come back to-morrow morning if you
+will. I cannot answer you now.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>As he still held her she spoke again. &ldquo;If I
+come to you willingly I shall be more worth
+having, and if you do not go now I will never
+come. I will drown myself in the Arno.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Very well. I will come to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When he was gone she went stumblingly
+across the room to the mattress on the floor
+in the farthest corner, and threw herself down
+upon it, dressed as she was.</p>
+
+<p>There was no more oil in the little lamp, and
+its flame flickered and went out after a while,
+leaving her in the dark. The clocks were
+striking two. Long since the moon had set
+behind the hills and now the stars were fading,
+or so it seemed. There was no light anywhere.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
+Olive did not sleep. Her frightened
+thoughts ran to and fro busily, aimlessly, like
+ants disturbed, hither and thither, this way
+and that. He could give her so much.
+Nothing real, indeed, but many bright counterfeits.
+For a while she would seem to be cared
+for and beloved. Yes, but if the true love
+came she would be shamed. She knew that
+her faith in Dante&rsquo;s Amor, his lord of terrible
+aspect, made his coming possible. The men
+and women who go about proclaiming that
+there is no such person because they have
+never seen him were born blind. Like those
+prosy souls who call the poets mad, they
+mistake impotence for common sense.</p>
+
+<p>Besides, the first step always costs so dear,
+and now that he was gone and she could think
+of him calmly she knew that she was afraid
+of Filippo Tor di Rocca. He was cruel.
+Then among the forces arrayed against him
+there was the desire of that she called her
+soul to mortify her flesh, to beckon, to lead
+by stony ways to the heights of sacrifice.
+She could not be sure where that first step
+would lead her, she could not be sure of herself
+or gauge the depths to which she might
+fall.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, God!&rdquo; she said aloud. &ldquo;Help me!
+Don&rsquo;t let things be too difficult.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The hours of darkness were long, but the
+grey glimmering dawn came at last with a
+pattering of rain against the uncurtained
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
+window. Olive rose as soon as it was light,
+and before eight she had eaten the crust of
+bread she had saved for her breakfast and
+was gone out. On her way down the stairs
+she met her landlady and spoke to her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If anyone comes to see me will you tell
+them that I have gone out, and that I do not
+know when I shall come in again. And if
+anything is said about my going away you can
+say that I have changed my mind and that I
+shall not leave Florence.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She would not cross the river for fear of
+meeting Filippo in any of the more-frequented
+streets on the other side, so she went down the
+Via della Porta Romana and out by the gates
+into the open country beyond. She walked
+for a long time along muddy roads between the
+high walls of vineyards and olive orchards.
+She had an umbrella, but her skirts were
+draggled and splashed with mire and the water
+came through the worn soles of her thin shoes.
+She had nothing to eat and no money to buy
+food. There were some coppers in her purse,
+but she had forgotten to bring that. It was
+windy, and as she was toiling up the steep hill
+to Bellosguardo her umbrella blew inside out.
+She threw it down by the side of the road and
+went on, rather glad to be rid of it and to feel
+the rain on her face. She had two hands now
+to hold her skirt and that was better. Soon
+after noon she knocked at the door of a
+gardener&rsquo;s cottage and asked for something
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
+to eat; she was given a yellow lump of
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">polenta</i> and a handful of roast chestnuts
+and she sat down on a low wall by the roadside
+to devour them. She did not think much
+about anything now, she could not even feel
+that she cared what happened to her, but she
+adhered to the resolution she had made to
+keep out of the way until Tor di Rocca had
+left Florence. She could not sit long. It was
+cold and she was poorly clad, so poorly that
+the woman in the cottage had believed her
+to be a beggar. The Prince would have had
+to buy her clothes before he could take her
+away with him.</p>
+
+<p>She wandered about until nightfall and then
+made her way back to the house in the Borgo,
+footsore and cold and wretched, but still the
+captain of her soul; ragged, but free and in no
+man&rsquo;s livery.</p>
+
+<p>The landlady heard her coming slowly up
+the stairs and came out of her room to speak
+to her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;A gentleman called for you this morning.
+I told him you were gone out and that you had
+changed your mind about leaving Florence,
+and at first he seemed angry, and then he
+laughed. &lsquo;Tell her we shall meet again,&rsquo;
+he said. Then another came this afternoon
+in an automobile and asked if you lived here,
+and when I said you were out he said he
+would come again this evening. He left his
+card.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
+Olive looked at it with dazed eyes. Her
+pale face flushed, but as she went on up the
+stairs the colour ebbed away until even her
+lips were white. She had to rest twice before
+she could reach her own landing, and when
+she had entered her room she could go no
+farther than the door. She fell, and it was
+some time before she could get up again, but
+she still held the card crumpled in her hand.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Jean Avenel.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3>
+
+
+<p>The Villa Fiorelli is set high among the olive
+groves above the village of Settignano. There
+are Medicean balls on a shield over the great
+wrought-iron gates, and the swarthy splendid
+banker princes appear as the Magi in the faded
+fresco painting of the Nativity in the chapel.
+They have knelt there in the straw of the
+stable of Bethlehem for more than four hundred
+years. The <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">nobili</i> of Florence were used to
+loiter long ago on the terrace in the shade of
+the five cypresses, and women, famous or
+infamous, but always beautiful, listened to
+sonnets said and songs sung in their honour
+in the scented idleness of the rose garden. The
+villa belonged first to handsome, reckless
+Giuliano, the lover of Simonetta and others,
+and the father of a Pope, and when the
+dagger thrusts of the Pazzi put an end to his
+short life his elder brother and lord, Lorenzo,
+held it for a while before he sold it to the
+Salviati. So it passed through many hands
+until at last Hilaire Avenel bought it and
+filled it with the books and armour that he
+loved. There were Spanish suits, gold-chased,
+in the hall, Moorish swords and lances,
+and steel hauberks on the staircase, and stray
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
+arquebuses, greaves and gauntlets everywhere.
+They were all rather dusty, since
+Hilaire was unmarried; but he was well
+served nevertheless. He was not a sociable
+person, and no Florentine had ever partaken
+of a meal with him, but it was currently reported
+that he sat through a ten-course
+dinner every night of his life, crumbling the
+bread at the side of his plate, and invariably
+refusing to partake of nine of the dishes that
+were handed in form by the old butler.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It&rsquo;s real mean of your brother to keep his
+lovely garden shut up all through the spring,&rdquo;
+the Marchesa Lorenzoni had said once to Jean,
+and he had replied, &ldquo;Well, it is his.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>That seemed final, but the present Marchesa
+and late relict of Jonas P. Whittaker of Pittsburg
+was not so easily put off. She was apt
+to motor up to Settignano more than once in
+the May month of flowers; the intractable
+Hilaire was never at home to her, but she
+revenged herself by multitudinous kind inquiries.
+He was an invalid, but he disliked to
+be reminded of his infirmities almost as much
+as he did most women and all cackle about the
+weather.</p>
+
+<p>Jean lived with him when not playing
+Chopin at the ends of the earth, and when the
+two were together the elder declared himself
+to be perfectly happy. &ldquo;I only want you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And your first editions and your Cellini
+helmet.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
+When Jean came back from his American
+tour his brother was quick to notice a change
+in him, and when on the day after his Florentine
+concert he came in late for a dinner which
+he ate in silence, Hilaire spoke his mind. They
+were together in the library. Jean had taken
+a book down from the shelves but he was not
+reading it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Bad coffee.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Was it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Hilaire was watching his brother&rsquo;s face.
+It seemed to him that there were lines in it
+that he had not seen before, and the brown
+eyes that gazed so intently into the fire were
+surely very tired.</p>
+
+<p>He began again rather awkwardly. &ldquo;You
+have been here a week, Jean.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Did the concert go off well?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, well enough. As usual.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You went away alone in the Itala car
+before nine this morning and you came back
+scarcely an hour ago. What is the matter?
+Is there some new trouble? Jean, dear man,
+I am older than you; I have only you. What
+is it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean reached out for his tobacco pouch.
+&ldquo;Hilaire,&rdquo; he said very gravely, after a pause,
+which he occupied in filling his pipe. &ldquo;You
+remember I asked you to do anything, anything,
+for a girl named Olive Agar. You have never
+heard from her or of her?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Never.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; he sighed, &ldquo;I have been to Siena.
+There was some affair&mdash;early in September
+she came to Florence, to the Lorenzoni of all
+people in the world.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Hilaire whistled.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, I know,&rdquo; the younger man said
+gloomily, as though he had spoken. &ldquo;That
+woman! What she must have suffered in
+these months! Well, she left them suddenly
+at the beginning of November.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Where is she now?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s just it. I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why did she leave Siena?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;There was some trouble&mdash;a bad business,&rdquo;
+he answered reluctantly. &ldquo;She lived with
+some cousins, and one of them committed
+suicide. She came away to escape the horror
+and all the talk, I suppose.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, I need not ask why she left the
+Lorenzoni woman. No girl in her senses
+would stay an hour longer than she could help
+with her.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hilaire, I think I half hoped to see her
+at the concert yesterday. When I came on
+the platform I looked for her, and I am sure I
+should have seen her in that crowd if she had
+been there. She is different, somehow. I
+played like a machine for the first time in my
+life, I think, and during the interval the
+manager asked me why I had not given the
+nocturne that was down on the programme.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
+I said something about a necessary alteration
+at the last moment, but I don&rsquo;t know now
+what I did play. I was thinking of her. A
+girl alone has a bad time in this world.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You are going to find her? Is she in love
+with you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean flushed. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t answer that.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right. What I really wanted
+to know was if you cared for her. I see you
+do. Oh, Lord!&rdquo; The older man sighed
+heavily as he put down his coffee-cup. &ldquo;I
+wish you would play to me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean went into the music-room, leaving the
+folding doors between open, and sat down at
+the piano. There was no light but the moon&rsquo;s,
+and Hilaire saw the beloved head dark against
+the silvery grey of the wall beyond. The
+skilled hands let loose a torrent of harmonies.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Damn women!&rdquo; said Hilaire, under cover
+of the fortissimo.</p>
+
+<p>He spent some hours in the library on the
+following day re-arranging and dusting his
+books, lingering over them, reading a page
+here and there, patting their old vellum-bound
+backs fondly before he returned them to their
+shelves. They absorbed him, and yet the
+footman bringing in his tea on a tray heard
+him saying, &ldquo;I must not worry.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean had always come to him with his
+troubles ever since he was a child, and the
+worst of all had been brought about by a
+woman. That was years ago now. Hilaire
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
+had been away from England, and he had
+come back to find his brother aged and
+altered&mdash;and married.</p>
+
+<p>They had got on so well together without
+women in these latter years that Hilaire had
+hoped they might live and die in peace, but it
+seemed that it was not to be. Jean had gone
+out again in the car to look for his Olive.
+Well, if she made him happy Hilaire thought
+they might get on very well after all. But
+he had forebodings, and later, he sat
+frowning at the white napery and glittering
+glass and silver reflected in the polished
+walnut wood of his well-appointed table, and
+he refused soup and fish with unnecessary
+violence. Jean loved this girl and she could
+make him happy if she would, but would she?
+She was evidently not of a &ldquo;coming-on disposition&rdquo;;
+she was good, and Jean was,
+unfortunately, still married to the other.</p>
+
+<p>It had been raining all day. The wind
+moaned in the trees and sighed in the chimney,
+and now and again the blazing logs on the
+hearth hissed as drops fell on them from
+above.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;There is a good fire in the signorino&rsquo;s
+dressing-room, I hope. He has been out all
+day, and it is so stormy that&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The signorino has come in, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">eccellenza</i>.
+He&mdash;he brought a lady with him. She seemed
+faint and ill, and I sent for the gardener&rsquo;s wife
+to come and look after her. I have given her
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
+the blue room, and the housekeeper is with
+her now. She was busy with the dinner when
+she first came.&rdquo; The old butler rubbed his
+hands together.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I hope I did right,&rdquo; he said after a pause.</p>
+
+<p>Hilaire roused himself. &ldquo;Oh, quite right,
+of course. She will want something to eat.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have sent up a tray&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, when?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He&mdash;here he is.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The old man drew back as Jean came in.
+&ldquo;I am sorry to be late, Hilaire.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It does not matter.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Thereafter both sat patiently waiting for
+the end of a dinner that seemed age-long.
+When, at last, they were alone Jean rose to
+his feet; he was very pale and his brown eyes
+glittered.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Did Stefano tell you? I have found her
+and brought her here.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, she has come, has she?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You think less of her for that. Ah, you
+will misjudge her until you know her. Wait.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He hurried out of the room.</p>
+
+<p>Hilaire stood on the hearth with his back to
+the fire. He repeated his formula, but there
+was a not unkindly light in his tired eyes,
+and when presently the door was opened and
+the girl came in he smiled.</p>
+
+<p>The club foot, of which he was nervously
+conscious at times, held him to his place, but
+she came forward until she was close to him.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
+&ldquo;You are his brother,&rdquo; she began. &ldquo;I&mdash;what
+a good fire.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She knelt down on the bear skin and
+stretched her hands to the blaze. Hilaire
+noticed that she was excessively thin; the
+rose-flushed cheeks were hollow and the curves
+of the sweet cleft chin too sharp. He looked
+at her as she crouched at his feet; the nape
+of the slim neck showed a very pure white
+against the shabby black of her dress, there
+were fine threads of gold in the soft brown
+tangle of her hair.</p>
+
+<p>Jean was dragging one of the great armchairs
+closer.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You are cold,&rdquo; he said anxiously. &ldquo;Come
+and sit here.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She rose obediently.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Have you had any dinner?&rdquo; asked
+Hilaire.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes; they brought me some soup in my
+room. I am not hungry now.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She spoke very simply, like a child. Jean had
+rifled all the other chairs to provide her with
+a sufficiency of cushions, and now he brought
+her a footstool.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I think I must take my shoes off,&rdquo; she
+said. &ldquo;So cold&mdash;you see they let the water
+in, and&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Take them off at once,&rdquo; ordered Hilaire,
+and he watched, still with that faint smile in
+his eyes, as Jean knelt to do his bidding.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s very nice,&rdquo; sighed the girl. &ldquo;I
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
+never knew before that real happiness is just
+having lots to eat and being warm.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The two men looked at each other.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have often wondered about you,&rdquo; she
+said to Hilaire presently. &ldquo;Your eyes are
+just like his. I think if I had known that I
+should have had to come before; but you see I
+promised Cardinal Jacopo of Portugal&mdash;in
+San Miniato&mdash;that I would not. What am I
+talking about?&rdquo; Her voice broke and she
+covered her face with her hands.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, my God!&rdquo; Jean would have gone
+to her, but his brother laid a restraining hand
+on his arm.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Leave her alone,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;She will be
+all right to-morrow. It&rsquo;s only excitement,
+nervous exhaustion. She must rest and eat.
+Wait quietly and don&rsquo;t look at her.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean moved restlessly about the room;
+Hilaire, gravely silent, seemed to see nothing.</p>
+
+<p>So the two men waited until the girl was
+able to control her sobs.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am so sorry,&rdquo; she said presently. &ldquo;I
+have made you uncomfortable; forgive
+me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Will you take a brandy-and-soda if I give
+it you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, if you think it will do me good.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Hilaire limped across to the sideboard.
+He was scarcely gone half a minute, but when
+he came back with a glass of the mixture he
+had prescribed he saw his brother kneeling
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
+at the girl&rsquo;s side, his arms about her, his face
+hidden in the folds of her skirt.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Jean! Get up!&rdquo; he said very sharply.
+&ldquo;Pull yourself together.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive sat stiffly erect; her swollen, tear-stained
+lids hid the blue eyes, her pale, quivering
+lips formed words that were inaudible.</p>
+
+<p>Hilaire ground his teeth. &ldquo;Get up!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>After a while the lover loosed his hold; he
+bent to kiss the girl&rsquo;s feet; then he rose and
+went silently out of the room. Hilaire
+listened for the closing of another door before
+he rang the bell.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER X</h3>
+
+
+<p>For some days and nights Olive lived only to
+eat and sleep. When she woke it was to hear
+a kind old voice urging her to take hot milk
+or soup, to see a kind old face framed in white
+hair set off by black lace lappets; and yet
+whenever she closed her eyes at first she was
+aware of a passionate aching echo of words said
+that was sad as the sound of the sea in a shell.
+&ldquo;I love you&mdash;I love you&mdash;&rdquo; until at last sleep
+helped to knit up the ravelled sleave of
+care.</p>
+
+<p>Every morning there were fresh roses for
+her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The signorino hopes you are better.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, much better, thank you.&rdquo; And after
+a while a day came when she felt really strong
+enough to get up. She dressed slowly and
+came down and out on to the terrace. The
+crumbling stones of the balustrade were moss-grown,
+as was the slender body of the bronze
+Mercury, poised for flight and dark against
+the pale illimitable blue of the December sky.
+Hilaire Avenel never tried to make Nature
+neat; the scarlet leaves of the Virginia creeper
+came fluttering down and were scattered on
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
+the worn black and white mosaic of the pavement;
+they showed like fire flickering in the
+sombre green of the cypresses. Beyond and
+below the garden, the olive and ilex woods,
+and the steep red roofs of Settignano, lay
+Florence, a city of the plain, and wreathed in
+a delicate mist. There was the great dome
+of Santa Maria dei Fiori; the tortuous silver
+streak that was Arno, spanned by her bridges;
+there was Giotto&rsquo;s tower, golden-white and rose
+golden, there the campanile of the Badia, the
+grim old Bargello, and the battlemented walls
+of the Palazzo Vecchio; farther still, across
+the river, the heights of San Miniato al Monte,
+Bellosguardo, and Mont&rsquo; Oliveto, cypress
+crowned.</p>
+
+<p>Two white rough-coated sheep-dogs came
+rushing up the steps from the garden to greet
+Olive with sharp barks of joy, and Hilaire was
+not slow to follow. Olive still thought him
+very like his brother, an older and greyer
+Jean.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have been so looking forward to showing
+you the garden,&rdquo; he said hurriedly in his kind
+eagerness to put her at her ease. &ldquo;There
+are still a few late chrysanthemums, and you
+will find blue and white violets in the grass by
+the sundial.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They passed down the steps together and
+through the green twilight of the orange
+groves, and came to a little fountain in the
+midst of a space of lawn set about with
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
+laurels. Hilaire threw a biscuit into the
+pool, and the dark water gleamed with silver
+and gold as the fish rushed at it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I flatter myself that all the living things
+in this garden know me,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I bar
+the plainer kinds of insects and scorpions, of
+course; but the small green lizards are charming,
+aren&rsquo;t they?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Mamie Whittaker had one on a gold chain.
+She used to wear it sometimes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She would,&rdquo; he said drily. &ldquo;The young
+savage! Better go naked than torture harmless
+things.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;This place is perfect,&rdquo; sighed Olive; and
+then, &ldquo;You have no home in France?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We should have; but our great-grandfather
+was guillotined in Paris during the
+Terror, and his wife and child came to England.
+Years later, when they might have
+gone back they would not. Why should
+they? Napoleon had given the Avenel
+estates to one of his ruffians, who had since
+seceded to the Bourbon and so made all secure.
+Besides, they were happy enough. Marie
+Louis Hilaire gave music lessons, and the
+Marquise scrubbed and cooked and patched
+their clothes&mdash;she, who had been the Queen&rsquo;s
+friend, and so they managed to keep the little
+home together. Presently the young man
+married, and then Jean Marie appeared on the
+scene. We have a picture of him at the age
+of five, in a nankeen frock and a frill. Our
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
+mother was a Hungarian&mdash;hence Jean&rsquo;s music,
+I suppose&mdash;and there is Romany blood on
+that side. These are our antecedents. You
+will not be surprised at our vagaries now?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive smiled. &ldquo;No, I shall remember the
+red heels of Versailles, English bread and
+butter, and the gipsy caravan.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Jean has fetched your books from the
+Monte di Piet&agrave;. Marietta found the tickets
+in your coat pocket. You don&rsquo;t mind?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Looking at her he saw her eyes fill with
+tears, and he hurried on: &ldquo;No rubbish, I
+notice. Are you fond of reading?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I was wondering if you would care to
+undertake a work for me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I should be glad to do anything,&rdquo; she said
+anxiously.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have some thousands of books in the
+villa. Those I have collected myself I know&mdash;they
+are all in the library&mdash;but there are
+many that were left me by my father, and
+others that came from an uncle, and they
+are all piled up in heaps in the empty rooms
+on the second floor. I want someone to sort
+them out, catalogue, and arrange them for
+me. Would you care to do it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, indeed.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right then,&rdquo; he said hastily.
+&ldquo;I&rsquo;ll get a carpenter in at once to put up some
+more shelves ready for them. And I think
+you had better stay on in the villa, if you
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
+don&rsquo;t mind. It will be more convenient.
+The salary will be two hundred lire a month,
+paid in advance.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Your kindness&mdash;I can&rsquo;t express my gratitude&mdash;&rdquo;
+she began tremulously.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Nonsense! This is a business transaction,
+and I am coming out of it very well. I
+should not get a man to do the work for that
+absurdly small sum. I am underpaying you
+on purpose because I hate women.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive laughed. &ldquo;Commend me to misogynists
+henceforth.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She wanted to begin at once, but her host
+assured her that he would rather she waited
+until the shelves were put up.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You will have to sort them out several
+times, according to date, language and subject.
+Perhaps Jean can help you when he
+returns. He is away just now.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Watching her, he saw the deepening of the
+rose.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I&mdash;I can&rsquo;t remember exactly what happened
+the night I came, Mr Avenel. You
+know I had not been able to find work, and
+though my <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrona</i> was kind she was very
+poor too. She pawned my things for me,
+but they fetched so little, and I had not had
+anything to eat for ever so long when he came.
+He has not gone away because of me, has
+he?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Hilaire threw the fish another biscuit; it
+fell among the lily leaves at the feet of
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
+the weather-stained marble nymph of the
+fountain.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I must decline to answer,&rdquo; he said gravely,
+after a pause. &ldquo;I understand that you are
+twenty-three and old enough therefore to
+judge for yourself, and I do not intend to
+influence either you or Jean, if I can help it.
+You will be perfectly free to do exactly what
+you think right, my dear girl. I will only
+give you one bit of advice, and that is, look
+at life with your eyes wide open. Don&rsquo;t
+blink! This is Friday, and Jean is coming to
+see you on Wednesday.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER XI</h3>
+
+
+<p>Olive told herself that Hilaire was very good
+to her in the days that followed. He came
+sometimes into the room where she was, to
+find her sitting on the floor amid the piles of
+books she was trying to reduce to some kind of
+order.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You do not get tired? I am afraid they
+are rather dusty.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, not at all,&rdquo; she assured him. She
+was swathed in a blue linen apron of Marietta&rsquo;s
+and had tied a cotton handkerchief over her
+hair. &ldquo;I like to feel I am doing something
+for you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I wish&mdash;you have been&mdash;you
+are so kind.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>On the Wednesday morning she covered
+some of the books with brown paper and
+pasted labels on their backs. She tried not
+to listen for the creaking of the great gates as
+they swung open, for the grating of wheels
+against the stones, for Jean&rsquo;s voice calling to
+his brother, for his quick step upon the stair,
+but she heard all as she wrote <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Vita Nuova</i> on
+the slip intended for an early edition of the
+<i>Rape of the Lock</i>, and put the <i>Decameron</i>
+aside with some sermons and commentaries
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
+that were to be classified as devotional literature.
+He did not come to her then, but she
+was desperately afraid that he might. &ldquo;I
+am not ready ... not ...&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When, later, she came into the dining-room
+she seemed to be perfectly at her ease. Jean&rsquo;s
+eyes had been fixed on the door, and they met
+hers eagerly as she came forward. &ldquo;Are
+you better?&rdquo; he asked, and then bit his lip,
+thinking he had said the wrong thing.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, yes. But&mdash;but you look pale and
+thinner.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Her little air of gay indifference fell away
+from her. As he still held her hand she felt
+the tears coming and longed to be able to run
+upstairs and take some more sal volatile, but
+Hilaire came to the rescue.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, let&rsquo;s have lunch,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I
+hate tepid food.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When they had taken their places Jean
+gave the girl a letter.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It came for you to the Lorenzoni. I
+called at the porter&rsquo;s lodge this morning and
+Ser Gigia gave it me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Such a waste of good things I never saw,&rdquo;
+the butler said afterwards to his wife. &ldquo;As
+you know, the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">padrone</i> never eats more than
+enough to fill a bird, but I have seen the
+signorino hungry, and the young lady too.
+To-day, however, they ate nothing, though
+the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">frittata</i> was fit to melt in one&rsquo;s mouth. I
+should not have been ashamed to set it
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
+before the Archangel Gabriel, and he would
+have eaten it, since it is certain that the
+Blessed One has never been in love.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>After the meal, to which no one indeed
+had done justice, Hilaire explained that he
+was going to write some letters.</p>
+
+<p>The younger man looked at Olive. &ldquo;Come
+with me,&rdquo; he said abruptly. &ldquo;I want to
+play to you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I want to hear you,&rdquo; she said as she rose
+from the table.</p>
+
+<p>He followed her into the music-room and
+shut the door. &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She chose to misunderstand him. &ldquo;It is
+charming. Just what a shrine of sound
+should be.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The grand piano stood out from the grey-green
+background of the walls beyond, there
+was a bronze statuette of Orpheus with his
+lute on a twisted Byzantine column of white
+and gold mosaic, and a long cushioned divan
+set on one side broke the long lines of light on
+the polished floor.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What are you going to play?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Nothing, at present,&rdquo; he said, smiling at
+her. &ldquo;I want to talk to you first. You are
+not frightened?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo; She sat on the divan and he stood
+before her, looking down into her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I think I had better try to tell you about
+my wife,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;May I sit here? And
+may I smoke?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; She drew her skirts aside to make
+room for him next to her. &ldquo;I want to hear
+you,&rdquo; she said again.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Imagine me, a boy of twenty-two, convalescing
+in country lodgings after an illness
+that seemed to have taken the marrow out
+of my bones. Hilaire was in Japan, and I&mdash;a
+callow fledgling from the nest&mdash;was very
+sick and sorry for myself. There were some
+people living in rather a large house at the
+other end of the village who took notice of me.
+They were the only ones, and I have thought
+since that my acquaintance with them really
+did for me with everyone else. They were
+not desirable&mdash;but&mdash;well, I was too young,
+and just then too physically weak to avoid
+their more pressing attentions. Old Seldon
+was one of those flushed, swollen men whose
+collars seem always to be too small for them.
+He tried to be pleasant, but it was not a great
+success. There were two daughters at home,
+and Gertrude was the eldest. She had been
+married, and the man had died, leaving her
+penniless. As you may suppose she had not
+come back to veal. I was sorry for her then
+because she seemed a good sort, and she was
+very kind to me; she was five years my
+senior&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Go on,&rdquo; Olive said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I used to go to the house nearly every
+evening. She sang well, and I used to play
+her accompaniments, while the old man hung
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
+about the sideboard. He never left us alone,
+and the younger girl, Violet, used to meet the
+rector&rsquo;s son in the stables then. I heard that
+afterwards. They lived anyhow, and owed
+money to all the tradespeople round.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;One night I was awakened by a knocking
+outside; my landlady slept at the back, and
+she was deaf besides, so I went down myself.
+The wind put my candle out as I opened the
+door, but I saw a woman standing there in
+the rain, and I asked her what she wanted.
+She made no answer, but pushed past me into
+the passage, and went into my sitting-room.
+I followed, of course.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, perhaps you have guessed that it was
+Gertrude. Her yellow hair hung down and
+about her face; she was only half dressed,
+and her bare arms and shoulders were all
+wet. Her skirts were torn and stained with
+mud. She told me her father had turned her
+out of the house in a drunken fury and she had
+come to me. Even then I wondered why she
+had not gone to some woman&mdash;surely she might
+have found shelter&mdash;however, she had come
+to me. I was going to call up my landlady,
+but she would not allow it because she said
+that no one but I need ever know. She would
+creep home through the fields soon after
+sunrise and her sister would let her in. The
+old man would be sleeping heavily.... The
+end of it was that I let her go up to my room
+while I lay on the sofa in the little parlour.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
+The horsehair bolster was deucedly hard, but
+I was young, and when I did get off I slept
+well. When I woke it was nearer eight than
+seven, and I had just scrambled up when my
+landlady came in. One look at her face was
+enough. I understood that Gertrude had
+overslept herself too.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The sequel was hateful. There was a
+frightful scandal, of course; the father raved,
+the women cried, the rector talked to me
+seriously, and&mdash;Olive, mark this&mdash;Gertrude
+would not say anything. I married her and
+we came away.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It was a trap,&rdquo; cried Olive.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We had not one single thing in common,
+and you know when there is no love sex is
+a barrier set up by the devil between human
+souls. After some years of mutual misery I
+brought her here. Poor Hilaire has hated
+respectable women ever since&mdash;she was that, if
+that counts when there is nothing else. Just
+virtue, with no saving graces. She is living in
+London now, is much esteemed, and regularly
+exceeds her allowance.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Was she pretty?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean had let his pipe go out, and now he
+relit it. &ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I suppose so.
+Frizzy hair and all that. I fancy she has
+grown stout now. She is the kind that
+spreads.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Life is all so hateful,&rdquo; sighed the girl.
+Jean moved away from her and went to the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
+window. Hilaire was limping across the
+terrace towards the garden steps. When he
+was gone out of sight Jean came back into
+the room.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My brother is unhappy too. The woman
+he loved died. Oh, Olive, are we to be lonely
+always because the law will not give me a
+divorce from the woman who was never really
+my wife, never dear to me or near to me as
+you are? Joy is within our reach, a golden
+rose on the tree of life, and it is for you to
+gather it or to hold your hand. Don&rsquo;t answer
+me yet for God&rsquo;s sake. Wait!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He went to the piano and opened it.</p>
+
+<p>Rain ... rain dripping on the roof through
+the long hours of night, and the weary moaning
+of the wakeful wind. Thronging memories
+of past years, past youth, past joy, past
+laughter echoing and re-echoing in one man&rsquo;s
+hungry heart. Light footsteps of children
+never to be born ... and then the heavy
+tread of men carrying a coffin, and the last
+sound of all&mdash;the clanging of an iron door....</p>
+
+<p>The grave ... the grave ... it held the
+boy who had loved her, and presently, surely,
+it would hold this man too, sealing his kind
+lips with earth, closing his brown eyes in an
+eternal darkness.</p>
+
+<p>He played, as thousands had said, divinely,
+not only with his hands but with his soul.
+The music that had been a work of genius
+became a miracle when he interpreted it, and
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
+indeed it seemed that virtue went out of him.
+His face was drawn and pale and a pulse beat
+in his cheek. Olive, gazing at him through
+a blur of tears, knew that she had never longed
+for anything in her life as she longed now to
+comfort this pain expressed in ripples, and low
+murmurings, and great crashing waves of the
+illimitable sea of sound. Her heart ached
+with the pity that is a woman&rsquo;s way of loving,
+and as he left the piano she rose too. He
+uttered a sort of cry as she swayed towards
+him, and clasped her in his arms.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I love you,&rdquo; he said, his lips so close to
+hers that she felt rather than heard the
+words.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER XII</h3>
+
+
+<p>Jean came to the villa a little before noon on
+the following day. Hilaire, who was in the
+library, heard his voice in the hall calling the
+dogs, heard him whistling some little song
+tune as he opened and shut all the doors one
+after the other.</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&ldquo;&lsquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">O l&rsquo;amor e&rsquo; come un nocciuola</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Se non se apre non si pu&ograve; mangiarla&mdash;</i>&rsquo;&rdquo;<br /></span>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hilaire, where are you? I thought I
+should find you on the terrace this fine morning.
+Where is she?&rdquo; he added eagerly as he
+laid a great bunch of roses down on the table.
+&ldquo;Is her headache better? Has not she come
+down yet?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He looked across the room to where his
+brother&rsquo;s grey head just showed above the
+high carved back of his chair.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hilaire! Why don&rsquo;t you answer?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>In the silence that ensued he distinctly heard
+the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece
+and the falling of the soft wood ashes in the
+grate; the beating of his own heart sounded
+loud to him. One of the dogs was scratching
+at the door and whining to be let in.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hilaire.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
+&ldquo;She is gone.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Gone?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes. She left this letter for you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, give it to me.&rdquo; He opened and read
+it hurriedly.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I thought you meant dead at first,&rdquo; he
+said. His brown eyes had lost the light that
+had been in them and were melancholy as
+before; he stood still by the table looking
+down upon his roses. They would fade, and
+she would never see them now. Never ...
+never ...</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Come and sit by the fire and let&rsquo;s talk it over
+quietly,&rdquo; said Hilaire. &ldquo;Oh, damn women,&rdquo;
+he mumbled as he drew at his pipe&mdash;the fifth
+that morning. It was the first time in a
+week that he had uttered his pet expletive.
+&ldquo;What does she say?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You can read her letter.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Would she mind?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; Jean said bitterly. &ldquo;She loves
+you&mdash;what she calls loving&mdash;next best after
+me. She told me so.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Hilaire carefully smoothed the crumpled,
+blotted page out on his knee.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>&ldquo;<span class="smcap">My dearest Jean</span>,&mdash;I am going away
+because I am a coward. I dare not live with
+you, and I dare not ask you to forgive me.
+Last night as I lay awake I thought and
+thought about my feeling for you and I was
+sure that it was love. I used to think of you
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
+often last summer and to wonder where you
+were and what you were doing, and I hoped
+you had not forgotten me. I did not love you
+then, but I suppose my thoughts of you kept
+my heart&rsquo;s door open for you, and certainly
+they helped to keep out someone else who
+came and tried to get admittance. Oh, one
+must suffer to keep love perfect, but isn&rsquo;t it
+worth while? You may not believe me now
+when I say that if I cared for you less I should
+stay, but it is true. Oh, Jean, even when we
+were so happy for a few minutes yesterday
+something in me looked beyond into the years
+to come and was afraid. Not of you; I trust
+you, dearest; but of the world. Men would
+stare at me and laugh and whisper together,
+and women would look away, and I know I
+should not be able to bear it. I am not brave
+like that. Oh, every word I write must hurt
+you, I know. Remember that I love you
+now and shall always. Good-bye.&mdash;Your</p>
+
+<p class="sig">&ldquo;<span class="smcap">Olive</span>.&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I should keep this.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am going to. Hilaire, did you know she
+was going? Did she tell you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The older man answered quietly: &ldquo;Yes,
+I knew, and I sent her to the station in the
+motor. I had promised a strict neutrality,
+Jean, and she was right to go. Some women,
+good women, may be strong enough to bear
+all the suffering that is entailed upon them by
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
+a known irregularity in their lives. She is
+not. It would probably have killed her
+though I am not saying that she would not
+have been happy sometimes, when she could
+forget her shame.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean flinched as though his brother had
+struck him. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t use that word.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, what else would it be? What else
+would the world call it? And women listen
+to what the world says. &lsquo;Good name in man
+or woman is the immediate jewel of their
+souls&rsquo;; Othello said something like that,
+and it&rsquo;s often true. Besides, you know, this
+woman is pure in herself, and from what she
+told me I understand that she has seen something
+of the seamy side of love lately&mdash;enough
+to inspire her with dread. She is afraid, and
+her fear is exquisite; a very fine and rare thing.
+It is the bloom on the fruit and should not
+be brushed off with an ungentle hand. Poor
+child! Don&rsquo;t blame her as she blames herself
+or I shall begin to think she is too good for
+you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean sat leaning forward staring into the
+fire.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you realise that when I brought her
+here it was from starvation in a garret?
+Where is she going? What will she do?
+Oh, God! The poor little slender body! Do
+you remember she said it was happiness just
+to be warm and have enough to eat?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That&rsquo;s all right,&rdquo; Hilaire said hastily.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
+&ldquo;She is going to a good woman, a friend she
+made in Siena. The letter you brought was
+from her, and she wrote to say she had been ill
+and wished Olive could come and be with her
+for a while.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I see! And she was glad to get away.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;My dear man, did you really think she
+would be so easily won? She loves you, and
+you not only made love to her yesterday
+afternoon; you played to her&mdash;I heard you&mdash;and
+I knew she would have to say &lsquo;Yes&rsquo; to
+everything. Now she says &lsquo;No,&rsquo; but you
+must not think she does not care.&rdquo; Hilaire
+got up, came across to where his brother sat,
+and laid a caressing hand on his shoulder.
+&ldquo;Dear Jean, will it comfort you to hear me
+swear she means every word of that letter?
+It&rsquo;s not all over. You will come together
+in the end. Her poor blue eyes were drowned
+in tears&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; Jean said brokenly. The
+hard line of his lips relaxed. He hid his face
+in his hands.</p>
+
+<p>Hilaire went out of the room.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212"><!-- blank page --></a></span></p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2 class="padtop">BOOK III.&mdash;ROME</h2>
+
+
+
+<h3 class="padtop">CHAPTER I</h3>
+
+
+<p>Olive was alone in the compartment of the
+train that bore her away from Florence and
+from Jean. She had a book; it lay open on her
+lap, and she had tried to read, but the lines all
+ran together and the effort to concentrate her
+thoughts made her head ache. She was very
+unhappy. It seemed to her that now indeed
+life was emptied of all sweets and the taste
+of it was as dust and ashes in her mouth.
+She was leaving youth and joy behind; or
+rather, she had killed them and left a man to
+bury them. At Orvieto she nearly broke
+down. It would be so easy to get out and
+cross over to the other platform and there
+await the next train back to Florence. She
+had her hand upon the handle of the door
+when a boy with little flasks of wine in a
+basket came up and asked her to buy, and as
+she answered him she heard the cry of &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Partenza!</em>&rdquo;
+It was too late; the moment had
+passed, and after a while she knew that she
+was glad she had not yielded. She was doing
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
+the right thing. What was the old French
+motto? &ldquo;<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Fais ce que doit, advienne que pourra.</i>&rdquo;
+The brave words comforted her a little. She
+was very tired, and presently she slept.</p>
+
+<p>She was awakened by the discordant yells
+of the Roman <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">facchini</i> on the station platform.
+One of them carried her box to the office of
+the Dogana, but a large party of Americans
+had come by the same train and the officials
+were too busily engaged in turning over the
+contents of their innumerable Saratogas to do
+more than scrabble in chalk on the side of her
+shabby leather trunk and shake their heads at
+the proffered key, and soon she was in a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vettura</i>
+clattering down the wide new Via Nazionale.</p>
+
+<p>Signora de Sanctis lived with her sister in
+one of the old streets in the lower part of the
+city near the Pantheon&mdash;the Via Arco della
+Ciambella. The houses there are built on the
+foundations of the Baths of Agrippa, and a
+brick arch, part of the great Tepidarium, remains
+to give the street its name. The poor
+fragment has been Christianised; a wayside
+altar sanctifies it, and a little painted shrine to
+the Madonna adorns the base. The buildings
+on that side are small and mean and overshadowed
+by the great yellow palace of the
+Spinola opposite. Olive&rsquo;s friends lived over
+a wine shop, but the entrance was some way
+down the street.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Fortunately, my dear,&rdquo; as they remarked,
+&ldquo;though really the place is very quiet.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
+People go outside the gates to get
+drunk.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Both the women seemed glad to see her.
+Her room was ready and a meal had been prepared
+and the cloth laid at one end of the
+work-table. The younger sister was a dressmaker
+too, and the floor was strewn with
+scraps of lining and silk. A white dress lay on
+the sofa, carefully folded and covered with a
+sheet of tissue paper.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You look tired, Olive. Were you not
+happy in Florence?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The girl admitted that the Lorenzoni had
+not been very kind to her. She had left them
+and had been living on her savings. It had
+been hard to find other employment. &ldquo;I want
+to work,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You will let me help
+you, and I hope to get lessons.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She asked to be allowed to wash the plates
+and dishes and put them away in the tiny
+kitchen. She was in a mood to bear anything
+better than the idleness that left room for
+her own sad thoughts, and she wished that
+they would let her do some sewing. &ldquo;I am
+not good at needlework, but I can hem and
+put on buttons,&rdquo; she pleaded.</p>
+
+<p>Signora Giulia smiled at her. She was
+small, and she had a pale, dragged look and
+many lines about her weak eyes. &ldquo;No,
+thank you, my dear. I have a girl apprentice
+who comes during the day, and I do the cutting
+out and designing and the embroidery myself.
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
+You must not tire yourself in the kitchen
+either. We have an old woman in to do
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mezzo servizio</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It was nine o&rsquo;clock, and the narrow streets
+were echoing now to the hoarse cries of the
+newsvendors: &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Tribuna!</em>&rdquo; &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Tribuna!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I will go and unpack then, and to-morrow
+I shall find some registry offices and try to
+get English lessons.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, go, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">nina</i>, and sleep well. You look
+tired. You must get stronger while you are
+with us.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>For a long time she could not sleep. In the
+summer she had played with the thought of
+love, and then she had been able to close her
+eyes and feel Jean Avenel close beside her,
+leaning towards her, saying that she must not
+be afraid, that he would not hurt her. It had
+been a sort of game, a childish game of make-believe
+that seemed to hurt no one, not even
+herself. But now she was hurt indeed;
+the remembrance of his kisses ached upon her
+lips.</p>
+
+<p>When Tor di Rocca had asked her to go
+away with him she had felt that it might be
+worth while, that it would be pleasant to be
+cared for and loved, to eat and drink and
+die on the morrow, but the man himself had
+been nothing to her. A means to an
+end.</p>
+
+<p>She had been wholly a creature of blind
+instincts, the will to live, to creep out of the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
+dark into the sunshine that is inherent in the
+animal, fighting against that other impulse,
+trying to root up that white fragile flower,
+watered throughout the centuries with blood
+and tears and rare and precious ointment,
+that thorn in some women&rsquo;s hearts, their
+pale ideal of inviolate purity.</p>
+
+<p>The spirit had warred against the flesh, and
+the spirit had won then and now. It had
+won, but not finally. She was dismayed to
+find that temptation was a recurrent thing.
+Every morning when she woke it returned to
+her. It would be so easy to write &ldquo;Dearest,
+come to me.&rdquo; It would be so easy to make
+him happy. She thought little of herself now
+and much of Jean. Would he stay on with
+his brother or go away again? Had she hurt
+him very much? Would he forget her? Or
+hate her?</p>
+
+<p>During the day she trudged the streets of
+Rome and grew to know them well. Here,
+as in Florence, no one wanted to pay for
+learning, no one wanted an English girl for
+anything apparently. If she had been Swiss,
+and so able to speak three languages incorrectly,
+she might have found a place as
+nursery-governess; as it was, the people in
+the registry offices grew tired of her and she
+was afraid to go to them too often.</p>
+
+<p>There was little for her to do in the house.
+The old woman who came in did the cleaning,
+and they lived on bread and <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ricotta</i> cheese
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>
+and a cabbage soup that was easily prepared,
+but sometimes she was able to help
+with the sewing, and now and then she
+was allowed to take the finished work
+home.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is not fit! They will take you for an
+apprentice, a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">sartina</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive laughed rather mirthlessly at that.
+&ldquo;I am not proud,&rdquo; she said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I sat up until two last night to finish the
+Contessa&rsquo;s dress. She is always in a hurry.
+If only she would pay what she owes,&rdquo; sighed
+the dressmaker.</p>
+
+<p>Olive promised to bring the money back with
+her, and she waited a long while in the stuffy
+passage of the Contessa&rsquo;s flat. There were
+imitation Abyssinian trophies on the walls,
+lances and daggers and shields of lathe and
+cardboard and painted paper. The husband
+was an artillery captain, and his sword stood
+with the umbrellas in the rack, the only real
+thing in that pretentious armoury.</p>
+
+<p>The Contessa came out to her presently.
+She was a large woman, and as she was angry
+she seemed to swell and redden and gobble as
+turkeys do.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Are you the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">giovinetta</i>? You will take
+this dress away. It is not fit to put on.&rdquo;
+She held the bodice in her hand, and as she
+spoke she shook it in Olive&rsquo;s face. &ldquo;The
+stitches are all awry; they are enormous;
+and half the embroidery is blue and the other
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>
+half green. I shall make her pay for the
+material. The dress is ruined, and it is the
+last she shall make for me. She must pay me,
+and you must tell her so.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive collected her scattered wits. &ldquo;If
+the Signora Contessa would allow me to look,&rdquo;
+she said.</p>
+
+<p>The stitches were very large, and her heart
+sank as she examined them. The poor women
+had toiled so over this work, stooping over it,
+straining their tired eyes. &ldquo;I think we can
+alter it to your satisfaction, but I must ask
+you to be indulgent, signora. I will bring it
+back the day after to-morrow, if that will suit
+you.&rdquo; She folded the bodice carefully and
+wrapped it in the piece of paper she had
+brought it in, fastening the four corners with
+pins.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The skirt goes well?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It will do,&rdquo; the Contessa admitted as she
+turned away. &ldquo;Anacleto!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>A slender, dark-eyed youth emerged from
+the shadows at the far end of the passage,
+bringing a sound and smell of frying with him.
+His bare brown arms were floury and he wiped
+them on his striped cotton apron as he came
+forward to open the door. He wore a white
+camellia thrust behind one ear.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It would be convenient&mdash;Signora Manara
+would be glad if you could pay part of her
+account,&rdquo; faltered Olive.</p>
+
+<p>The Contessa stopped short. &ldquo;I could,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>
+but I will not,&rdquo; she said emphatically. &ldquo;She
+does her work too badly.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The young servant grinned at the girl as
+she passed out. She was half-way down the
+stairs when he came out on to the landing and
+leaned over the banisters.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Never! Never!&rdquo; he called down to her.
+&ldquo;They never pay anyone. I am leaving
+to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The white camellia dropped at her feet.
+She smiled involuntarily as she stooped to
+gather up the token. &ldquo;Men are rather
+dears.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She met Ser Giulia coming down the stairs
+of their house. The little woman looked
+quickly at the bundle she carried as she asked
+why it had been brought back.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She wants it altered! <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio mio!</em> And
+I worked so hard at it. How much of the
+money has she given you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She has given nothing; I hope she will
+pay when I take the work back.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But the other began to cry. &ldquo;Perhaps the
+stitches are large,&rdquo; she said, sobbing. &ldquo;I
+know my eyes are weak. No one will pay
+me, and I owe the baker more than ten lire.
+Soon we shall have to beg our bread in the
+streets.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; Olive said hurriedly. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t.
+I have been with you more than a month and
+I have not found work yet, but I will not be
+a burden to you much longer. I shall find
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
+something to do soon and then you need not
+do so much and we shall manage better.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, child, I know you do your best.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t cry then. I will get money somehow.
+Don&rsquo;t be afraid.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER II</h3>
+
+
+<p>Olive sat idly on one of the benches near the
+great wall in the Pincian gardens. She had
+been to an office in the Piazza di Spagna and
+had there been assured for the seventh time
+that there was nothing on the books. &ldquo;If
+the signorina were a cook now, there are many
+people in need of cooks,&rdquo; the young man
+behind the counter had said smilingly, and
+she had thanked him and come away. What
+else could she do?</p>
+
+<p>It was getting late, and a fading light
+filtered through the bare interwoven branches
+of the planes. The shadows were lengthening
+in the avenues and grass-bordered paths where
+the seminarists had been walking in twos and
+threes among the playing children. They
+were gone now, the grave-faced young men in
+their black soutanes and broad beaver hats;
+all the people were gone.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;O Pasquina! <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Birichina!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive, turning her head, saw a young
+woman and a child coming towards her. The
+little thing was clinging to its mother&rsquo;s skirts,
+stumbling at every step, whining to be taken
+up, and now she dropped the white rabbit
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>
+muff and the doll she was carrying into a
+puddle.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;O Pasquina!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The child stared open-mouthed as Olive
+came forward and stooped to pick up the
+fallen treasures, and though tears were running
+down her little face she made no outcry.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;See, the beautiful lady helps you,&rdquo; the
+mother said hastily, and she sat down on the
+bench at Olive&rsquo;s side and lifted the baby on
+to her lap to comfort her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She is tired. We have been to the Campo
+Marzo to buy her a fine hat with white
+feathers,&rdquo; she explained.</p>
+
+<p>Olive looked at her with interest. She was
+not at all pretty; her round snubby face was
+red and she had a bruise on her chin, and yet
+she was somehow attractive. Her small,
+twinkling blue eyes were so kind, and her
+hair was beautiful, smooth, shining, and
+yellow as straw. She wore no hat.</p>
+
+<p>Her name was Rosina. The signorino was
+always very good, and he gave her an afternoon
+off when she asked for it. On Christmas
+night, for instance, she had drunk too much
+wine, and she had fallen down in the street
+and hurt herself. The next day her head
+ached so, and when the signorino saw she
+was not well he said she might go home and
+sleep. She had been working for him six
+weeks. What work? She seemed surprised
+at the question.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I am a model. My face is ugly, as you
+see,&rdquo; she said in her simple, straightforward
+way; &ldquo;but otherwise I am beautiful, and I
+can always get work with sculptors. The
+signorino is an American and he has an unpronounceable
+name. He is doing me as Eve,
+crouched on the ground and hiding my head
+in my arms. After the Fall, you know. Have
+you been to the Andreoni gallery? There is a
+statuette of me there called &lsquo;Morning.&rsquo; This
+is the pose.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She clasped her hands together behind her
+head, raising her chin a little. Olive observed
+the smooth long throat, the exquisite lines of
+the shoulders and breast and hips. Pasquina
+slipped off her mother&rsquo;s knees.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Are you well paid?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It depends on the artist. Some are so
+poor that they cannot give, and others will
+not. The schools allow fifteen soldi an hour,
+but the signorino is paying me twenty-five
+soldi. In the evenings I sing and dance
+at a <i>caff&egrave;</i> near the station.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive hesitated. &ldquo;Do&mdash;do artists ever
+want models dressed?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Rosina looked at her quickly. &ldquo;Oh, yes,
+when they are as pretty as you are. But you
+are well educated&mdash;one sees that&mdash;it is not
+fit work for such as you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Never mind that,&rdquo; Olive said eagerly.
+&ldquo;How does one begin being a model? I will
+try that. Will you help me?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
+Rosina beamed at her. &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sicuro!</em> We
+will go to Varini&rsquo;s school in the Corso if you
+like. The woman in the newspaper kiosk
+in the Piazza di Spagna knows me, and I can
+leave Pasquina with her. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">An&rsquo;iamo!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The two girls went together down the wide,
+shallow steps of the Trinit&agrave; dei Monti with the
+child between them.</p>
+
+<p>Poor little Pasquina was the outward and
+visible sign of her mother&rsquo;s inward and hopelessly
+material gracelessness; she symbolised
+the great gulf fixed between smirched Roman
+Rosina and Jean&rsquo;s English rose in their
+different understanding of their own hearts&rsquo;
+uses. Olive believed love to be the way
+to heaven; Rosina knew it, or thought she
+knew it, as a means of livelihood.</p>
+
+<p>The model was very evidently not only
+familiar with the studios. The cabmen on the
+rank in the piazza hailed her with cries of
+&ldquo;Rosi&rdquo;; she was greeted by beggars at the
+street corners, dustmen, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i>, crossing-sweepers,
+and Olive was not wholly unembarrassed.
+Yet Rosina escaped the vulgarity
+of some who might be called her betters as the
+world goes by being simply natural. When
+she was amused she laughed aloud, when she
+was tired she yawned as openly and flagrantly
+as any duchess. In manners extremes meet,
+and the giggle and the sneer are the disastrous
+half measures of the ill-bred, the social
+greasers. Rosina had never been sly in her
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
+life; she was ever as simply without shame as
+Eve before the Fall, and lawless because she
+knew no law. The darkness of Northern
+cities is tainted and cold and cannot bring
+forth such kindly things as the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">rosine</i>&mdash;little
+roses&mdash;that spring up in the warm, sweet
+Roman dust.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Here is Varini&rsquo;s.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They passed through a covered passage into a
+little garden overgrown with laurels and gnarled
+old pepper trees; there was a fountain with
+gold fish, and green arums were springing up
+about a broken faun&rsquo;s head set on a pedestal
+of <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">verd&rsquo; antico</i>. Some men were standing
+together in the path, a pretty dark-eyed
+peasant girl with them. They all turned to
+stare, and the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cioccara</i> put out her tongue
+as Olive went by. Rosina instantly replied
+in kind.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Oh&egrave;! Fortunata! Benedetta ragazza!</em>
+Resting as usual? Does Lorenz still beat
+you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She described the antecedents and characteristics
+of Lorenz.</p>
+
+<p>The slower-witted country girl had a more
+limited vocabulary. Her eyes glared in the
+shadow of her white coif. &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; she gasped.
+&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Brutta bestia!</em>&rdquo; and she turned her back.</p>
+
+<p>The men laughed, and Rosina laughed with
+them as she knocked on a green painted door
+in the wall. It was opened by a burly,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
+bearded man, tweed-clad, and swathed in a
+stained painting apron.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Professore</i>, here is a friend of mine
+who wants work.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Come in,&rdquo; he said shortly, and they followed
+him into a large untidy studio. A
+Pompeian fruit-seller in a black frame, a study
+for a Judgment of Paris on a draped easel,
+and on another easel the portrait of an old
+lady just begun. There were stacks of canvases
+on the floor and on all the chairs.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Turn to the light,&rdquo; the artist said
+brusquely; and then, as Olive obeyed him,
+&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be frightened. You are new, I see.
+You are so pink and white that I thought you
+were painted. You are not Italian?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What, then?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She was silent.</p>
+
+<p>He smiled. &ldquo;Ah, well, it does not matter.
+You can come to the pavilion on Monday at
+five and sit to the evening class for a week.
+You understand? Wait a minute.&rdquo; He
+went to the door and called one of the young
+men in from the garden.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Here is a new model, Mario. I have
+engaged her for the evening class. What do
+you think of her?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carina assai</i>,&rdquo; approved Mario. He was
+a round-faced, snub-nosed youth with clever
+brown eyes set very far apart, and a humorous
+mouth. &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carina assai!</em>&rdquo; he repeated.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Fifteen soldi the hour, from five to seven-thirty,&rdquo;
+said the professor. &ldquo;Come a little
+before the time on Monday; the porter will
+show you what costume you must wear and I
+shall be there to pose you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Now I shall take you to M&rsquo;sieur Michelin,&rdquo;
+Rosina said when they had left Varini&rsquo;s.
+&ldquo;He is looking for a type, and perhaps you
+will please him. He is <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">strano</i>, but good
+always, and he pays well.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is not tiring you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ma che!</em> I must see that you begin well
+and with the right people. Some painters are
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">canaglia</i>. Ah, I know that,&rdquo; the girl said
+with a little sigh and a shrug of her shoulders.</p>
+
+<p>They went by way of the Via Babuino
+across the Piazza di Spagna, and up the little
+hill past the convent of English nuns to the
+Villa Medici. Rosina rang the gate-bell, and
+the old braided Cerberus admitted them
+grumblingly. &ldquo;You are late. But if it is
+M&rsquo;sieur Camille&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Camille Michelin, bright particular star of
+the French Prix de Rome constellation, lived
+and worked in one of the more secluded garden-studios
+of the villa; it was deep set in the ilex
+wood, and the girls came to it by a narrow
+winding path, box-edged, and strewn with
+dead leaves. A light shone in one of the upper
+windows; the great man was there and he
+came down the creaking wooden stairs himself
+to open the door.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Who is it? Rosina? I have put away
+the Anthony canvas for a month and I will
+let you know when I want you again.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But, signorino, I have brought you a
+type.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What!&rdquo; he said eagerly, in his execrable
+Italian. &ldquo;Fresh, sweet, clean?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sicuro.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I do not believe you. You are lying.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Camille was picturesque from the crown of
+his flaxen head to the soles of his brown boots;
+his pallor was interesting, his blue eyes remarkable;
+he habitually wore rust-coloured
+velveteen; he smoked cigarettes incessantly.
+All men who knew and loved his work saw in
+him a decadent creature of extraordinary
+charm; and yet, in spite of his &ldquo;Aholibah,&rdquo; his
+&ldquo;Salome,&rdquo; and his horribly beautiful, unfinished
+study of Fulvia piercing the tongue
+of Cicero, in spite of his Byron-cum-Baudelaire
+after Velasquez and Vandyke exterior
+he always managed to be quite boyishly simple
+and sincere.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Where is she?&rdquo; Then, as his eyes met
+Olive&rsquo;s, he cried, &ldquo;Not you, mademoiselle?&rdquo;
+His surprise was as manifest as his pleasure.
+&ldquo;My friends have sworn that I could never
+paint a wholesome picture. Now I will show
+them. When can you come?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Monday morning.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do not fail me,&rdquo; he implored. &ldquo;Such
+harpies have been here to show themselves
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
+to me; fat, brown, loose-lipped things with
+purple-shadowed eyes. But you are perfect;
+divine bread-and-butter. They think they
+are clean because they have washed in soap
+and water, but it is the stainless soul I want.
+It must shine through my canvas as it does
+through Angelico&rsquo;s.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I hope I shall please you,&rdquo; faltered the
+girl. &ldquo;I&mdash;I only pose draped.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He looked at her quickly. &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo;
+he said, &ldquo;I will remember. It is your head
+I want. You are not Roman; have you sat
+to any other man here?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No. I am going to Varini&rsquo;s in the evenings
+next week.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah! Well, don&rsquo;t let anyone else get
+hold of you. Gontrand will be trying to snap
+you up. He is so tired of the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">cioccare</i>. What
+shall I call you?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Nothing. I have no name.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I shall give you one. You shall be called
+child. Come at nine and you will find the
+door open.&rdquo; He fumbled in his pockets for
+some silver. &ldquo;Here, Rosina, this is for the
+little one.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER III</h3>
+
+
+<p>The virtue that bruises not only the heel of
+the Evil One but the heart of the beloved is
+never its own reward. The thought of Jean&rsquo;s
+aching loneliness oppressed Olive far more than
+her own. She believed that she had done
+right in leaving him, but no consciousness of
+her own rectitude sustained her, and she was
+pitifully far from any sense of self-satisfaction.
+Her head hung dejectedly in the cold light
+of its aureole. Sometimes she hated herself
+for being one of the dull ninety-and-nine who
+never stray and who need no forgiveness,
+and yet she clung to her dear ideal of love
+thorn-crowned, white, and clean.</p>
+
+<p>She had hoped to be able to help her
+friends, but that hope had faded, and she had
+been very near despair. There was something
+pathetic now in her intense joy at the
+thought of earning a few pence. She lied to
+the kind women at home because she knew
+they would not understand. They might
+believe the way to the Villa Medici to be the
+primrose path that leads to everlasting fire&mdash;they
+probably would if they had ever heard of
+Camille. She told them she had found
+lessons, and the wolf seemed to skulk growlingly
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
+away from the door as she uttered the
+words.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You need not be afraid of the baker now,&rdquo;
+she told Ser Giulia. &ldquo;He shall be paid at the
+end of the week.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Her waking on the Monday morning was
+the happiest she had known since she left
+Florence. She was to help to make beautiful
+things. Her part would be passive; but
+they also serve who only stand and wait.
+She was not of those who see degradation in
+the lesser forms of labour. Each worker is
+needed to make the perfect whole. The men
+who wrought the gold knots and knops of the
+sanctuary, who wove the veil for the Holy
+of Holies, were called great, but the hewers
+of wood and carriers of water were temple
+builders too, even though their part was but
+to raise up scaffoldings that must come down
+again, or to mix the mortar that is unseen
+though it should weld the whole. Men might
+pass these toilers by in silence, but God would
+surely praise them.</p>
+
+<p>Praxiteles moulded a goddess in clay, and
+we still acclaim him after the lapse of some two
+thousand years. What of the woman who
+wearied and ached that his eyes might not
+fail to learn the least sweet curve of her?
+What of the patient craftsmen who hewed out
+the block of marble, whose eyes were inflamed,
+whose lungs were scarred by the white dust
+of it? They suffered for beauty&rsquo;s sake&mdash;not,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
+as some might say, because they must eat
+and live. Even slaves might get bread by
+easier ways. But, very simply for beauty&rsquo;s
+sake.</p>
+
+<p>Olive might have soon learnt how vile such
+service may be in the studios of any of the
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">canaglia</i> poor Rosina knew, but Camille, that
+sheep in wolf&rsquo;s clothing, was safe enough.
+What there was in him of perversity, of brute
+force, he expended in the portrayal of his
+subtly beautiful furies. His art was feverishly
+decadent, and those who judge a man by his
+work might suppose him to be a monster of
+iniquity. He was, in fact, an extremely
+clever and rather worldly-wise boy who loved
+violets and stone-pines and moonlight with
+poetical fervour, who preferred milk to champagne,
+and saunterings in green fields to
+gambling on green cloth.</p>
+
+<p>That February morning was cloudless, and
+Rome on her seven hills was flooded in sunshine.
+The birds were singing in the ilex
+wood as Olive passed through, and Camille
+was singing too in his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">atelier</i>:</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&ldquo;&lsquo;<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Derri&egrave;re chez mon p&egrave;re</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Vive la rose.</i>&rsquo;<br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Il y a un oranger</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Vive ci, vive l&agrave;!</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Il y a un oranger,</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i1"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Vive la rose et le lilas!</i>&rdquo;<br /></span>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I was afraid you would be late.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Why?&rdquo; she asked, smiling, as she came to
+him across the great room.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Women always are. But you are not a
+woman; you are an angel.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He looked at her closely. The strong north
+light showed her smooth skin flawless.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The white and rose is charming,&rdquo; he said.
+&ldquo;And I adore freckles. But your eyes are too
+deep; one can see that you have suffered.
+There is too much in them for the innocent
+baa-lamb picture I must paint.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Her face fell. &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t do then?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Dear child, you will,&rdquo; he reassured her.
+&ldquo;I shall paint your lashes and not your eyes.
+Your lashes and a curve of pink cheek. Now
+go behind that screen and put on the sprigged
+cotton frock you will find there, with a muslin
+fichu and a mob cap. I have a basket of
+wools here and a piece of tapestry. The sort
+of woman I have never painted is always doing
+needlework.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Camille spent half the morning in the
+arrangement of the accessories that were, as
+he said, to suggest virtuous domesticity; then
+he settled the folds of the girl&rsquo;s skirt, the turn
+of her head, her hands. At last, when he was
+satisfied, he went to his easel and began to
+work. Olive had never before realised how
+hard it is to keep quite still. The muscles
+of her neck ached and her face seemed to grow
+stiff and set; she felt her hands quivering.</p>
+
+<p>Hours seemed to pass before his voice broke
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
+the silence. &ldquo;I have drawn it in,&rdquo; he
+announced. &ldquo;You can rest now. Come down
+and see some of my pictures.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He showed her his &ldquo;Salome,&rdquo; a Hebrew
+m&aelig;nad, whose scarlet, parted lips ached for
+the desert dreamer&rsquo;s death; &ldquo;Lucrezia Borgia,&rdquo;
+slow-smiling, crowned with golden hair; and
+a rough charcoal study for Queen Eleanor.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I seem to see you as Henry&rsquo;s Rosamund,&rdquo;
+he said. &ldquo;I wonder&mdash;the haunting shadow of
+coming sorrow in blue eyes. You have
+suffered.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am hungry,&rdquo; she answered.</p>
+
+<p>He looked at his watch. &ldquo;Forgive me!
+It is past noon. Run away, child, and come
+back at two.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The day seemed very long in spite of
+Camille&rsquo;s easy kindness, and the girl shrank
+from the subsequent sitting at Varini&rsquo;s.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why do you pose for those wretched
+boys?&rdquo; grumbled the Prix de Rome man.
+&ldquo;After this week you must come to me only.
+I must paint a Rosamund.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>At sunset she hurried down the hill to the
+Corso, and came by way of the corridor and
+garden to the pavilion. The porter took her
+into a dingy little lumber-filled passage and
+left her there. A soiled pink satin frock was
+laid ready for her on a broken chair. As she
+put it on she heard a babel of voices in the
+class-room beyond, and she felt something
+like stage-fright as she fumbled at the hooks
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>
+and eyes; but a clock struck the hour presently,
+and she went in then and climbed on to
+the throne. At first she saw nothing, but after
+a while she was aware of a group of men who
+stood near the door regarding her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carina.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, a fine colour, but too thin.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When the professor came in he made her sit
+in a carved chair, and gave her a fan to hold.
+The men moved about, choosing their
+places, and were silent until he left them with
+a gruff &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Felice notte</i>.&rdquo; Olive noticed the lad
+who had been called in to Varini&rsquo;s studio to
+see her; the boy who sat next him had a round,
+impudent face, and when presently she yawned
+he smiled at her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I will ask questions to keep you awake,
+but you must answer truly. Have you taken
+a fancy to anyone here?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t dislike you or Mario.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They rose simultaneously and bowed. &ldquo;We
+are honoured. But why? Bembi here is
+a fine figure of a man.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Enough!&rdquo; growled Bembi. &ldquo;You talk
+too much.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>During the rest Olive went to look at the
+boys&rsquo; work; it was brilliantly impressionistic.
+The younger had evidently founded himself on
+Mario, and Mario was, perhaps, a genius.</p>
+
+<p>They came and sat down, one on either side
+of her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why are you pretending to be a model?&rdquo;
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>
+whispered Mario. &ldquo;We can see you are not.
+Are you hiding from someone?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She shook her head. &ldquo;I am earning my
+bread,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;Be kind to me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We will.&rdquo; He patted her bare shoulder
+with the air of a grandfather, but his brown
+eyes sparkled.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why are some of the men so old, and
+why is some of the work so&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Bad.&rdquo; Mario squinted at Bembi&rsquo;s black,
+smudged drawing. &ldquo;I will tell you. That
+bald man in the corner is seventy-two;
+painting is his amusement, and he loves
+models. He wants to marry Fortunata, but
+she won&rsquo;t have him because he is toothless.
+Once, twenty-five years ago, he sold a watercolour
+for ten lire and he has never forgotten
+it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Really because he is toothless?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, he is mad too, and she is afraid of
+him. Cesare and I are the only ones here
+who will make you look human. It is a pity,
+as you are really <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carina</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He patted her shoulder again and pinched
+her ear, and Cesare passed his arm about her
+waist. She struggled to free herself.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Let her go!&rdquo; cried the other men, and,
+flushed and dishevelled, she took refuge on the
+throne. The pose was resumed, and the room
+settled down to work again.</p>
+
+<p>She kept very still, but after a while the
+tears that filled her eyes overflowed, ran down
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
+her cheeks, and dripped upon the hand that
+held the fan.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am sorry,&rdquo; cried Mario.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And I.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Forgive me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I was a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mascalzone</i>!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;And I.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Forgive them for our sakes,&rdquo; growled
+Bembi, &ldquo;or they will cackle all night.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive laughed a little in spite of herself,
+but she was very tired and they had hurt her.
+The marks of Cesare&rsquo;s fingers showed red still
+on her wrist, and the lace of the short sleeve
+was torn.</p>
+
+<p>Mario clattered out of the room presently,
+and came back with a glass of water for her.
+&ldquo;I am really sorry,&rdquo; he whispered as he gave
+it. &ldquo;Do stop crying.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>After all they had not meant any harm.
+She was a little comforted, and the expressed
+contrition helped her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I shall be better soon,&rdquo; she said gently.</p>
+
+<p>When she got home to the apartment in Via
+Arco della Ciambella there were lies to be told
+about the lessons, the pupils, the hours.
+The fine edge of her exaltation was already
+blunted, and she sighed at the thought of her
+morning dreams; sighed and was glad; the
+first steps had not cost much after all, and
+she had earned five lire and fifteen soldi.</p>
+
+<p>The lamp was lit in the little sitting-room,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>
+and Ser Giulia was there, cutting out a skirt
+on the table very carefully, in a tense silence
+that was broken only by the click of the
+scissors and the rustle of silk.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have lost confidence in myself,&rdquo; she said
+as she fastened the shining lengths together
+with pins. &ldquo;This <em>is</em> the right side of the
+material, isn&rsquo;t it, my dear? I can&rsquo;t see.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, this is right. Let me stitch the seams
+for you. Where is Signora Aurelia?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She has gone to bed. Her head ached.
+She&mdash;she does not complain, but I think
+she needs more sun and air than she can get
+here.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive looked at her quickly. &ldquo;You ought
+to go away and rest, both of you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Our brother in Como would be glad to
+have us with him, but it is impossible at
+present. I paid our rent a few days ago&mdash;three
+months in advance.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I will go to the house-agent in the Piazza
+di Spagna to-morrow. It should not be
+difficult to get a tenant, and at the end of the
+time the furniture could be warehoused, or
+you could sell it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Ser Giulia hesitated. &ldquo;What would you
+do then, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">figliuola mia</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, I can take care of myself,&rdquo; the girl said
+easily.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3>
+
+
+<p>After the first week Olive went only to
+Camille&rsquo;s <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">atelier</i>. He was working hard at
+his &ldquo;<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">&eacute;tude blanche</i>,&rdquo; but no one had been
+allowed to see it, except, of course, M&rsquo;sieur
+le Directeur.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I almost wish I had asked you to come
+always heavily veiled. The other men are
+all mad about you, and Gontrand tells me he
+wants you to give him sittings for the head
+of an oread, but he cannot have you. You
+are mine.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Is he a lean, black-bearded man?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He spoke to me the other day as I was
+coming through the garden, and asked me if
+you were really painting a &lsquo;<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">jeune fille</i>&rsquo;
+picture. I said you were painting a picture,
+and he would probably see it when you had
+your show in April.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Camille laughed. &ldquo;Good child! We must
+keep up the mystery.&rdquo; He flung down his
+brushes. &ldquo;I cannot work any more to-day.
+Will you come with me for a drive into the
+Campagna?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She hesitated. &ldquo;I am not sure&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Come as my little brother.&rdquo; He took
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
+off his linen painting sleeves, and began to
+dabble his fingers in a pan of turpentine.
+&ldquo;My little brother! Do you know that the
+Directeur thinks you are charming, and he
+wonders that I do not love you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am glad you do not,&rdquo; she said, colouring.
+&ldquo;If you did&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was lighting a cigarette. &ldquo;If I did?&rdquo;
+The little momentary flame of the match was
+reflected in his blue eyes.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I should go away and not come back
+again.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, I do not,&rdquo; he said heartily. &ldquo;I care
+for you as St Francis did for his pet sparrow.
+So now put your hat on and I will go down
+and get a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vettura</i> with a good horse.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was a creature of moods, and so young
+in many ways that he appealed to the girl as
+Astorre had done, by the queer, pathetic little
+flaws in his manhood. Some days he worked
+incessantly from early morning until the
+light failed at his picture, but there were
+times when he seemed unable even to look at
+it. He made several studies in charcoal for
+&ldquo;Rosamund.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is an inspiration,&rdquo; he said excitedly
+more than once. &ldquo;The rose of the world
+that can only be reached by love&mdash;or hate&mdash;holding
+the clue.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He had promised an American who had
+bought a picture of his the year before that he
+would do some work for him in Venice in the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>
+spring. &ldquo;Very rash of me,&rdquo; he said fractiously.
+&ldquo;The &lsquo;Jeune Fille&rsquo; would have been
+quite enough for me to show, and it is dreadful
+to have to leave it unfinished now.&rdquo; And
+when Gontrand tried to persuade him to let
+him have Olive during his absence he was,
+as the girl phrased it, quite cross. &ldquo;I have
+seen enough of that. Last year in the Salon
+St Elizabeth of Hungary, and Clytemnestra,
+and Malesherbe&rsquo;s <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vivandi&egrave;re</i> were one and the
+same woman. Besides, oreads are nearly
+related to Bacchantes, Gontrand, and I am
+not going to allow my little sewing-girl to
+be mixed up with people of that sort.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He made Olive promise not to sit for any
+of the other men at the Villa Medici.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I shall work at Varini&rsquo;s in the evenings,&rdquo;
+she said. &ldquo;And one of the men there wants
+me to come to his studio in the Via Margutta
+three mornings a week. He is a Baron von
+something.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Frenchman&rsquo;s face lightened. &ldquo;Oh,
+that German! I know him. I saw a landscape
+of his once. It looked as if several
+tubes of paint had got together and burst.
+What else will you do?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Rome, if you will lend me your B&aelig;deker,&rdquo;
+she answered. &ldquo;I shall begin with A and work
+my way through Beatrice Cenci and the
+Borgo Nuovo to the Corsini Gallery and the
+Corso. Some of the letters may be rather
+dull. I am so glad Apollo comes now.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
+He laughed. &ldquo;M for Michelin. You will
+be sure to admire me when my turn comes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive was living alone now in a tall old house
+in Ripetta. The two kind women who had
+been her friends had left Rome and gone to
+stay with their brother at Como. It was
+evidently the best thing they could do, and
+the girl had assured them that she was quite
+well able to look after herself, but they had
+been only half convinced by her reasoning.
+She was English and she had done it before.
+&ldquo;That is nothing,&rdquo; Ser Giulia said. &ldquo;You
+may catch a ball once, and the second time
+it may slip through your fingers. And sometimes
+Life is like the importunate widow
+and goes on asking until one gives what one
+should not.&rdquo; She helped her to find a room,
+and eked out the furniture from her own
+little store. &ldquo;Another saucepan, and a
+kettle, and a blanket. And if lessons fail
+you must come to us, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">figliuola mia</i>. My
+brother&rsquo;s house is large.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The girl had answered her with a kiss, but
+though she loved them she was not altogether
+sorry to see them go. She could never tell
+them how she had earned the lire that paid
+the baker&rsquo;s bill. The truth would hurt them,
+and she would not give them a moment&rsquo;s pain
+if she could avoid it, but she was not good at
+lying. Even the very little white ones stuck
+in her throat, and she was relieved to be no
+longer under the necessity of uttering them.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
+The room she had taken was on the sixth
+floor, and from the one narrow window she
+could look across the yellow swirl of Tiber
+towards Monte Mario. She had set up her
+household gods. The plaster bust of Dante,
+and her books, on the rickety wooden table
+by her bedside, and, such as it was, this place
+was home.</p>
+
+<p>Camille went by a night train, and Olive
+began to &ldquo;see Rome&rdquo; on the following morning.
+She took the tram to the Piazza Venezia
+and walked from thence to the church of
+Santa Maria Ara Coeli.</p>
+
+<p>The flight of steps to the west door is very
+long, and she climbed slowly, stopping once
+or twice to take breath and look back at the
+crowded roofs and many church domes of
+Rome, and at the green heights of the Janiculan
+hill beyond, with the bronze figure of
+Garibaldi on his horse, dominant, and very
+clear against the sky.</p>
+
+<p>The cripple at the door lifted the heavy
+leather curtain for her and she put a soldo into
+his outstretched hand as she went in. The
+church seemed very still, very quiet, after
+the clamour of the streets. The acrid scent
+of incense was as the breath of spent prayer.
+Little yellow flames flickered in the shrine
+lamps before each altar, but it was early yet
+and for the moment no mass was being said.
+An old, white-haired monk was sweeping
+the worn pavement. He was swathed in a
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
+blue linen apron, and his rusty brown frock
+was tucked up about his ankles. A lean
+black cat followed him, mewing, and now and
+then he stopped his work to stroke it. There
+was a great stack of chairs by the door, and a
+few were scattered about the aisles and
+occupied by stray worshippers, women with
+handkerchiefs tied over their heads in deference
+to St Paul&rsquo;s expressed wishes, two or
+three old men, and some peasants with
+their market baskets. A be-ribboned nurse
+carrying a baby had just come in to see the
+Sacro Bambino, and Olive followed them
+into the sacristy and saw the child laid down
+before the bedizened, red-cheeked wooden
+doll in the glass case. As they passed out
+again the monk who was in attendance gave
+Olive a coloured card with a prayer printed
+on the back. She heard him asking what was
+the matter with the little one. The woman
+lifted the lace veil from the tiny face and
+showed him the sightless eyes. He crossed
+himself. &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Poveretto! Dio vi benedica!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>As Olive left the sacristy a tall man came
+across the aisle towards her. It was Prince
+Tor di Rocca.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;This is a great pleasure,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;But
+not to you, I am afraid. You are not glad to
+see me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am surprised. I&mdash;do you often come
+into churches?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He laughed. &ldquo;I sometimes follow women
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>
+in. I saw you coming up the steps just now.
+You are right in supposing that I am not
+devout. I want to speak to you. Shall we
+go out?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She looked for a way of escape but saw none.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If&mdash;very well,&rdquo; she said rather helplessly.</p>
+
+<p>The hunchback woman at the south door
+watched them expectantly as they came
+towards her, and she brightened as she saw
+the man&rsquo;s hand go to his pocket. He threw
+her a piece of silver as they passed out. He
+was in a good humour, his fine lips smiling, a
+glinting zest in his insolent eyes. He thought
+he understood women, and he had in fact
+made a one-sided study of the sex. He had
+seen their ways of loving, he had listened to
+the beating of their hearts; but of their
+endurance, their long patience, their daily
+life he knew nothing. He was like a man
+who often wears a bunch of violets in his coat
+until they fade, and yet has never seen, or
+cared to see them, growing sparsely, small and
+sweet, half hidden in leaves on a mossy bank
+by the stream.</p>
+
+<p>Women amused him. He was seldom
+much moved by them, and he pursued them
+without haste or flurry, treading delicately like
+Agag of old. He had little intrigues everywhere,
+in Florence, in Naples, in Rome.
+Young married women, girls walking demurely
+with their mothers. He liked to know that
+it was he who brought the colour to their
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
+cheeks and that their eyes sought him among
+the crowd of men standing outside Aragno&rsquo;s
+in the Corso or on the steps of the club in the
+Via Tornabuoni. Very often the affair would
+be one of the eyes only, but sometimes it went
+farther. Filippo&rsquo;s procedure varied. Sometimes
+he put advertisements in the personal
+column of the Popolo Romano, and sometimes
+he wrote notes. It was always very
+interesting while it lasted. Occasionally affairs
+overlapped, as when an appeal to F. to meet
+Norina once more in the Borghese appeared
+in print above F.&rsquo;s request that the signorina
+in the pink hat would write to him at the Poste
+Restante.</p>
+
+<p>Olive had nearly yielded to him in Florence,
+and then she had run away, she had sought
+safety in flight. Evidently then his battle
+had been nearly won. But she had reassembled
+her forces, and he saw that it would
+be all to fight over again, and that the issue
+was doubtful.</p>
+
+<p>As they came into the little square piazza
+of the Capitol she turned to him. &ldquo;What
+have you to say? I&mdash;I am in a hurry.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am sorry for that, but if you are going
+anywhere I can walk with you, or we can take
+a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vettura</i> and drive together.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She looked past him at the green shining
+figure of Marcus Aurelius on his horse riding
+between her and the sun, and said nothing.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I shall enjoy being with you even if you
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
+are inclined to be silent. You are so good to
+look at.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>His brazen stare gave point to his words.
+Her face was no longer childish in its charm.
+It had lost the first roundness of youth, but
+had gained in expression. A soul seemed
+to be shining through the veil of flesh&mdash;white
+and rose-red flesh, divinely gilt with freckles&mdash;and
+fluttering in the troubled depths of her
+blue eyes. The nun-like simplicity of her
+grey dress pleased him: it did not detract from
+her; it left the eyes free to return to her face,
+to dwell upon her lips.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Something has happened,&rdquo; he said.
+&ldquo;There is another man. Are you married?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I only came to Rome yesterday. Strange
+that we should meet so soon. It seems that
+there is a Destiny that shapes our ends after
+all.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You do not believe in free will?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He shrugged his shoulders. &ldquo;I do not think
+about such things.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she said impatiently. &ldquo;Is that
+all you have to say? I suppose the Marchesa
+and Mamie are here too.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He hesitated and seemed to lose some of
+his assurance. &ldquo;No, we quarrelled. The
+girl is insupportable. She is engaged now to
+a lord of sorts, an Englishman, and they are
+still in Cairo.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So you have lost her too.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
+&ldquo;It was your fault that Edna gave
+me up. You owe me something for that.
+And you behaved badly to me again&mdash;afterwards.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I did not.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He laughed enjoyingly. &ldquo;I trusted you
+and you took advantage of a truce to run
+away.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She moved away from him, but he followed
+her and kept at her side.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I never asked you to trust me. I asked
+you to come the next day for an answer.
+You came and you had it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I came and I had it,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;Did
+the old woman give you my message?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That we should meet again?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That was not all. I said you would come
+to me one day sooner or later.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They had paused at the top of the steps
+that lead down from the Capitol into the
+streets and are guarded by the gigantic
+figures of Castor and Pollux, great masses of
+discoloured marble set on pedestals on either
+side. It was twelve o&rsquo;clock, and a black
+stream of hungry, desk-weary men poured
+out of the Capitoline offices. Many turned
+to look at the English girl as they hurried by,
+and one passing close to her muttered &ldquo;bella&rdquo;
+in her ear. She drew back as though she had
+been stung. Filippo laughed again.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I only ask to be let alone,&rdquo; she said.
+&ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you understand that you remind me of
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
+things I want to forget. I am ashamed, oh,
+can&rsquo;t you understand!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She left him and went to stand on the outskirts
+of the crowd that had collected in front
+of the cage in which the wolves are kept.
+Evidently she hoped that he would go on,
+but he meant to disappoint her, and when
+she went down the steps he was close beside
+her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why are you so unkind to me?&rdquo; he said,
+and as they crossed the road he held her
+arm.</p>
+
+<p>She wrenched herself away, went up to the
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabiniere</i>, who stood at the corner, and
+spoke to him. The man smiled tolerantly as
+he glanced from her to Filippo. &ldquo;Signorina,
+I cannot help you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She passed on down the street, knowing
+that she was being followed, crossed the
+Corso Vittorio Emanuele and took a tram in
+the Piazza della Minerva. Tor di Rocca got
+in too and sat down opposite to her. The conductor
+turned to him first, and when she
+proffered her four soldi she found that he
+had paid for both. Her hand shook as she
+put the money back in her purse, and her
+colour rose. Filippo, quite at his ease,
+leisurely, openly observant of her, whistled
+&ldquo;Lucia&rdquo; softly to himself. Roses, roses all the
+way, and all for him, he thought amusedly.
+And yet she bore the ordeal well, betraying
+no restlessness, keeping her eyes unswervingly
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
+fixed on the two lions of the advertisement
+of Chinina Migone pasted on the glass
+over his head. At the Ripetta bridge she
+got out. He followed, saw her go into a house
+farther down the street, and paused on the
+threshold to take the number before he went
+up the stairs after her. She heard him
+coming. He turned the handle of the door,
+but she had locked it and it held fast. He
+knocked once and called to her. Evidently
+he was not sure of her being within. There
+was another room on the same landing, and
+after a while he tried that.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Are you in there? <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Carissima</i>, you are
+wasting time. To-day or to-morrow, sooner or
+later. Why not to-day, and soon?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>A silence ensued. The girl had taken off
+her hat and thrown it down upon the table.
+She stood very still in the middle of the room
+listening, waiting for him to go away again.
+Her breath came quickly, and little pearls of
+sweat broke out upon her forehead. His
+persistence frightened her.</p>
+
+<p>He waited for an answer, and receiving none,
+added, &ldquo;Well, I will come again,&rdquo; and so
+went away.</p>
+
+<p>She stayed in until it was time to go to
+Varini&rsquo;s. It was not far, but she was flushed
+and panting with the haste that she had made
+as she put on the faded blue silk dress that
+had been laid out ready for her on the one
+broken chair in the dressing-room. Rosina
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>
+came in to her presently from the professor&rsquo;s
+studio. She wore a man&rsquo;s tweed coat and a
+striped blanket wrapped about her, and she
+was smoking a cigarette.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So you have come back to work here.
+Your signorino at the Villa Medici is away?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Only for a few days. He will not be gone
+long. The picture is not finished. How is
+Pasquina?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Rosina had come over to her and was
+fastening the hooks of her bodice. &ldquo;She is
+very well. How pretty you are.&rdquo; She rearranged
+the laces at the girl&rsquo;s breast and
+caught up a torn piece of the silk with a pin.
+&ldquo;That is better. Have you been running?
+You seem hot.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, Rosina, I have been frightened. A
+man followed me. I shall be afraid to go
+home to-night.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The yellow-haired Trasteverina looked at
+her shrewdly. &ldquo;He knows where you live?
+Have you only seen him once?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He&mdash;he came and tried my door. I am
+afraid of him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Rosina nodded. &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Si capisce!</em> I will take
+care of you. I have met so many <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mascalzoni</i>
+in twenty years that I have grown used to
+them. I will come home with you, and if any
+man so much as looks at us I will scratch his
+eyes out.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Through the thin partition wall they heard
+the professor calling for his model. &ldquo;I must
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
+go,&rdquo; she said hurriedly, but as she passed
+out Olive caught at a fold of the enveloping
+blanket.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Come here, I want you.&rdquo; She flung her
+arms about the other girl&rsquo;s neck and kissed
+her. &ldquo;You are good! You are good!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She went into the class room and climbed
+the throne as the men came clattering in to
+take their places. The professor posed her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So you have come back to us. Do not
+let them spoil you at the Villa Medici&mdash;your
+head a little higher&mdash;so.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The first drawing in of the figure is not a
+thing to be taken lightly, and the silence was
+seldom broken at Varini&rsquo;s on Monday evenings.
+The two boys, however, found it hard
+to repress the natural loquacity of their
+extreme youth.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Al lavoro</i>, Mario! What are you whispering
+about? Cesare, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">zitto</i>!&rdquo; Bembi stared
+at them. &ldquo;Their chins are disappearing,&rdquo;
+he said. &ldquo;See their collars. Every day an
+inch higher. <em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio mio!</em> Is that the way to
+please women? I wear a flannel shirt and
+my neck is as bare as a plucked chicken, and
+yet I&mdash;&rdquo; he stopped short.</p>
+
+<p>Mario laughed. &ldquo;Women are strange,&rdquo;
+he admitted.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Mad!&rdquo; cried Cesare, and then as Bembi
+still smirked ineffably he appealed to Olive.
+&ldquo;Do you admire fowls wrapped in flannel
+or <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">in arrosto</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
+When she came out she found Rosina
+waiting for her in the courtyard, a grey
+shadow with smooth fair hair shining in the
+moonlight. &ldquo;The professor let me go at
+eight so I dressed and came out here,&rdquo; she
+explained. &ldquo;The dressing-room is full of
+dust and spider&rsquo;s webs. I told the porter
+the other day that he ought to sweep it, but
+he only laughed at me and said Domeniddio
+made spiders long before he took a rib out of
+Adam&rsquo;s side to whip a naughty world.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Who is the man?&rdquo; she asked presently
+as they walked along together. &ldquo;Do I know
+him?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I do not think so. He is not an artist.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Rosina laid a hand upon her arm. &ldquo;Is
+that he?&rdquo; she said.</p>
+
+<p>They had passed through one of the narrow
+streets that lead from the Corso towards the
+river and were come into the Ripetta.</p>
+
+<p>A tall man was walking slowly along on the
+other side of the road. He did not seem to
+have noticed the two girls, and yet as he
+stopped to light a cigarette he was looking
+towards them. A tram came clanging up,
+the overhead wires emitting strange noises
+peculiar to themselves, the gong ringing
+sharply. Olive glanced up at the red painted
+triangle fixed to the lamp-post at the corner.
+&ldquo;It will stop here. Quick! while it is
+between us. Perhaps he has not seen&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They ran to her door and up the stairs
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
+together. &ldquo;It has only just gone on,&rdquo; cried
+Rosina. &ldquo;Have you got your key?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She stayed on the landing while Olive went
+into the room and lit her candle. There was
+no sound in the house at all, no step upon the
+stair. As she peered down over the banisters
+into the darkness below she listened intently.
+The rustling of her skirt sounded loud in
+the stillness, but there was nothing else.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He did not see us,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I shall
+go now. Lock your door. <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Felice notte,
+piccina.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER V</h3>
+
+
+<p>Camille, loitering on the terrace of the old
+garden of the Villa Medici, was quick to hear
+the creaking of the iron gate upon its hinges.
+His pale face brightened as he threw away his
+cigarette and he went down the path between
+the ilex trees to meet his model.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You have come. Oh, I seem to have been
+years away.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They went up the hill together. It was
+early yet, and the city was veiled in fine mist
+through which the river gleamed here and
+there with a sharpness of steel. The dome
+of St Peter&rsquo;s was still dark against the greenish
+pallor of the morning sky.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am glad to be in Rome again. Venice
+is beautiful, but it does not inspire me. It has
+no associations for me. What do I care for the
+Doges, or for Titian&rsquo;s fat, golden-haired women
+with their sore eyes&mdash;Caterina Cornaro and
+the rest. Rome is a crystal in which I seem
+to see faces of dear women, women who lived
+and loved and saw the sun set behind that
+rampart of low hills&mdash;Virginia, the Greek
+slave Acte, Agnes, Cecilia, who sang as she
+lay dying in her house over there in the
+Trasteverine quarter. Ah, I shall go away
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
+and have the nostalgia of Rome to the end
+of my life.&rdquo; He paused to light another
+cigarette. &ldquo;Come and look at the picture.
+I have not dared to see it again myself since
+I came back last night.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The door of his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">atelier</i> was open; he
+clattered up the steep wooden stairs and she
+followed him. The canvas was set up on an
+easel facing the great north light. Camille
+went up to it and then backed away.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was smiling. &ldquo;It is good,&rdquo; he said.
+&ldquo;I shall work on it to-day and to-morrow.
+Get ready now while I prepare my palette.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He looked at her critically as she took her
+place. The change in her was indefinable,
+but he was aware of it. She seemed to be
+listening.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you feel a draught from the door?&rdquo;
+he asked presently.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, but I should like it shut.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Nerves. You need a tonic and probably
+a change of air and scene. There is nothing
+the matter?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She shook her head. Camille was kind,
+but he could not help her. He could not
+make the earth open and swallow Tor di
+Rocca, and sometimes she felt that nothing
+less than that would satisfy her, and that
+such a summary ending would contribute
+greatly to her peace of mind.</p>
+
+<p>She had not seen the Prince for two days
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span>
+and she was beginning to hope that he had
+gone away, but she was not yet able to feel
+free of him. Rosina had come home with her
+every night from Varini&rsquo;s. Once he had
+followed them, and twice he had come up the
+stairs and knocked at the door. There had
+been hours when she had been safe from him,
+but she had not known them, and the strain,
+the constant pricking fear of him, was telling
+upon her. Every day youth and strength and
+hope seemed to be slipping away and leaving
+her less able to do and to endure. She dared
+not look forward, as Camille did, to the end of
+life. He would die in his bed, full of years
+and honour, a great artist, a master, the
+president of many societies, but she&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>Sometimes, as she stood facing the semi-circle
+of men at Varini&rsquo;s, and listened to the
+busy scratching of charcoal on paper, to
+Bembi&rsquo;s heavy breathing, and to the ticking
+of the clock, she wondered if she had done
+wrong in taking this way of bread earning.
+Certainly there could be no turning back.
+The step, once taken, was irrevocable. If
+artists employed her she would go on, but she
+could get no other work if this failed. If this
+failed there must be another struggle between
+flesh and spirit, and this time it would be
+decisive&mdash;one or other must prevail. Though
+she dreaded it she knew it was inevitable.</p>
+
+<p>Meanwhile Camille stood in need of her
+ministrations. He had arranged to show his
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>
+work on the fifteenth of April, and now he
+seemed to regard that date as thrice accursed.
+Often when she came in the morning she
+would find him prowling restlessly to and fro,
+or sitting with his head in his hands staring
+gloomily at the parquet flooring and sighing
+like a furnace.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I hate having to invite people who do not
+know anything, who cannot tell an etching
+from an oil,&rdquo; he said irritably. &ldquo;I cannot
+suffer their ridiculous comments gladly. I
+would rather have six teeth pulled out than
+hear my Aholibah called pretty. <em>Pretty!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;They cannot say anything wrong about
+the picture of me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It is splendid.
+M&rsquo;sieur le Directeur says so, and I am sure it
+is. And your Venice sketches look so well
+on the screen.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You must be there,&rdquo; he moaned. &ldquo;If
+you are not there I shall burst into tears and
+run away.&rdquo; Then he laughed. &ldquo;I am always
+like this. You should see me in Paris on the
+eve of the opening of the Salon. A pitiable
+wreck! I had no angel to console me there.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He kissed her hands with unusual fervour.</p>
+
+<p>The girl had not really meant to come at
+first, but she yielded to his persuasions. &ldquo;I
+will look after the food and drink then,&rdquo; she
+said, and she spent herself on the decoration
+of the tea-table. They went to Aragno&rsquo;s
+together in the morning to get cakes and
+bonbons.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
+&ldquo;What flowers?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She chose mimosa, and he bought a great
+mass of the fragrant golden boughs, and a
+bunch of violets for her.</p>
+
+<p>Camille knew a good many people in Rome,
+and all those he had asked came. The Prix
+de Rome men were the first arrivals. They
+came in a body, and on the stroke of the hour
+named on the invitation cards. Camille
+watched their faces eagerly as they crowded
+in and came to a stand before his picture;
+they knew, and if they approved he cared
+little for the verdict of all Rome.</p>
+
+<p>Gontrand was the first to break rather a
+long silence.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Delicious!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;It is a triumph.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Camille flushed with pleasure as the others
+echoed him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The scheme of whites,&rdquo; &ldquo;The fine
+quality,&rdquo; &ldquo;So pure.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>One after the other they went across the
+room to talk to the model, who stood by the
+tea-table waiting to serve them.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You are wonderful, mademoiselle. If only
+you would sit for me I might hope to achieve
+something too.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;When M&rsquo;sieur Michelin has done with
+me,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You like the picture?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;It is adorable&mdash;as you are.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Other people were coming now. Camille
+stayed by the door to receive them while his
+friend Gontrand showed the drawings in the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
+portfolio, explained the Campagna sketches,
+and handed plates of cake and sweets. When
+Olive made fresh tea he brought her more
+sliced lemons from the lumber room, where
+Rosina was washing the cups.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am useful but not disinterested. Persuade
+Camille to let you sit for me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But you will not be here in the summer,&rdquo;
+she said wistfully.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Coffee, madame? These cakes are not
+very sweet. Yes, I was M&rsquo;sieur Michelin&rsquo;s
+model. Yes, it is a beautiful picture.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The crowd thinned towards six o&rsquo;clock,
+and there was no one now at the far end of
+the room but a man who seemed to be looking
+at the sketches on the screen. Olive thought
+she might take a cup of tea herself, and she
+was pouring it out when he turned and
+came towards her. It was Tor di Rocca.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; he said smilingly, &ldquo;the girl in
+Michelin&rsquo;s picture reminded me of you, but
+I did not realise that you were indeed the
+&lsquo;Jeune Fille.&rsquo; I have been away from
+Rome these last few days. Have you missed
+me?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>His hot brown eyes lingered over her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I should like a cup of coffee.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Her hand shook so as she gave it to him
+that much was spilled on the floor. She had
+pitied him once; he remembered that as
+he saw how she shrank from him. &ldquo;Michelin
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span>
+has been more fortunate than I have,&rdquo; he
+said deliberately.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I beg your pardon.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You seem to be at home here.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I suppose you must follow the bent of your
+mind.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I suppose I must,&rdquo; he agreed as he stood
+aside to let her pass. She had defied him that
+night in Florence. &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; she had said.
+And now he saw that she smiled at Camille
+as she went by him into the further room,
+and the old bad blood stirred in him and he
+ached with a fierce jealousy.</p>
+
+<p>She had denied him. &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; she had said.</p>
+
+<p>As he joined the group of men by the door
+Gontrand turned to him. &ldquo;Ah, Prince, have
+you heard that Michelin has already sold his
+picture?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am not surprised,&rdquo; the Italian answered
+suavely. &ldquo;If I was rich&mdash;but I am not. Who
+is the happy man?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That stout grey-haired American who
+left half an hour since. Did you notice him?
+He is Vandervelde, the great millionaire art
+collector.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;May one ask the price?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Eight thousand francs,&rdquo; answered Camille.
+He looked tired, but his blue eyes were very
+bright. &ldquo;I am glad, and yet I shall be sorry
+to part with it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You will still have the charming original,&rdquo;
+the Prince said not quite pleasantly.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>
+There was a sudden silence. The men all
+waited for Camille&rsquo;s answer. Beyond, in the
+next room, they heard the two girls splashing
+the water, clattering the cups and plates.</p>
+
+<p>The young Frenchman paused in the act
+of striking a match. He looked surprised.
+&ldquo;But this is the original. I have made no
+copy.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I meant&mdash;&rdquo; The Prince stopped short.
+After all, he thought, he goes well who goes
+slowly.</p>
+
+<p>Camille was waiting. &ldquo;You meant?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Tor di Rocca had had time to think.
+&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; he said sweetly.</p>
+
+<p>Silence was again ensuing but Gontrand
+flung himself into the breach.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The Duchess said she wanted her daughter&rsquo;s
+portrait painted.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She said the same to me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Are you going to do it?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Camille suppressed a yawn. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t
+know. <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Qui vivra verra.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He was glad when they were all gone,
+Gontrand and Tor di Rocca and the rest, and
+he could stretch himself and sigh, and sing
+at the top of his voice:</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i1">&ldquo;&lsquo;Nicholas, je vais me pendre<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Qu&rsquo;est-ce que tu vas dire de cela?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Si vous vous pendez ou v&rsquo;vous pendez pas<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">&Ccedil;a m&rsquo;est ben egal, Mam&rsquo;zelle.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Si vous vous pendez ou v&rsquo;vous pendez pas<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh, laissez moi planter mes chous!&rsquo;&rdquo;<br /></span>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
+When Olive came out of the inner room
+presently he told her that he had sold the
+&ldquo;Jeune Fille.&rdquo; &ldquo;The Duchess has nearly
+commissioned me to paint her M&eacute;lanie. It
+went off well, don&rsquo;t you think so? Come at
+nine to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, if you want me. Good-night, M&rsquo;sieur
+Camille,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Are you coming,
+Rosina?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Why do you wait for her?&rdquo; he asked
+curiously. &ldquo;I should not have thought you
+had much in common.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;She is my friend. She knows I do not
+care to be alone.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3>
+
+
+<p>When Olive came to the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">atelier</i> on the following
+morning Camille was not there, but the
+door was open and he had left a note on the
+table for her.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>&ldquo;I have had a letter from the Duchess.
+She is leaving Rome to-day but she wants
+to see me before she goes. It must be about
+her daughter&rsquo;s portrait. I must go to her
+hotel, but I shall drive both ways and be back
+in half an hour. Wait for me.&mdash;C. M.&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Olive took off her hat and coat as usual
+behind the screen. She was choosing a book
+from the tattered row of old favourites on the
+shelf when she heard a step outside. She
+listened, thinking that it was Camille, and
+fearing that the commission had not been
+given him. It was not like him to be so
+silent.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I thought you would be singing&mdash;&rdquo; she
+stopped short.</p>
+
+<p>Filippo came on into the room.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;M&rsquo;sieur Michelin is out,&rdquo; she said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So the porter told me. You do not think
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>
+I want to see him. Will you come with me to
+Albano to-day?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She shook her head.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;To-morrow, then. Why not?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have my work.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Your work! I see you believe you can
+do without me now. How long do you think
+you will be able to earn money in this way?
+All these men will be leaving Rome soon. The
+schools will be closed until next October.
+You will have to choose between the devil and
+the deep sea&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What is the good of talking about it?&rdquo;
+she said wearily. &ldquo;I know I have nothing
+to look forward to. I know that. Please
+go away.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Do you know that you have cost me more
+than any other woman I have ever met?
+You injured me; will you make no amends?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She laughed. &ldquo;So you are the victim.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said passionately, &ldquo;I told you
+before that I suffered, and you believed me
+then. Is it my fault that I am made like
+this? Since that night in Florence when I
+held you in my arms I have had no peace.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You behaved very badly. I can&rsquo;t think
+why I let myself be sorry for you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Badly! Some men would, but I loved
+you even then.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She looked wistfully towards the door.
+&ldquo;I wish you would go. There are so many
+other women.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I love you, I want you,&rdquo; he answered,
+and he caught her in his arms and held her
+in spite of her struggles. &ldquo;I have you!&rdquo;
+He forced her head down upon his breast and
+kissed her mouth. She thought the hateful
+pressure of his lips, the hateful fire of his eyes
+would kill her, and when, at last, she wrenched
+herself away she screamed with the despairing
+violence of some trapped, wild thing.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Camille! Camille!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>It seemed to her that if he did not hear her
+this must be the end of all, and she suffered
+an agony of terror. She thanked God as the
+door below was flung to and he came running
+up the stairs.</p>
+
+<p>The Prince let her go and half turned to
+meet him, but Camille was not inclined to
+parley. He struck, and struck hard. Filippo
+slipped on the polished floor, tried to recover
+himself, and fell heavily at the girl&rsquo;s feet.</p>
+
+<p>He got up at once, and the two men stood
+glaring at each other. Olive looked from
+one to the other. &ldquo;It was nothing. I am
+sorry,&rdquo; she said breathlessly. &ldquo;He was trying
+to&mdash;I was frightened. It was nothing,
+really, but&mdash;but I am glad you came.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So am I,&rdquo; the Frenchman said grimly.
+His blue eyes were grown grey as steel. &ldquo;I
+am waiting, Prince.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>A little blood had sprung from Filippo&rsquo;s
+cut lip and run down his chin. He wiped it
+with his handkerchief and looked thoughtfully
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
+at the stain on the white linen before he
+spoke.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Who is your friend?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ren&eacute; Gontrand.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, no!&rdquo; cried the girl. &ldquo;Filippo, it
+was your fault. Can&rsquo;t you be sorry and
+forget? Camille!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hush, child,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you do not understand.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Tor di Rocca was looking at her now with
+the old insolent smile in his red-brown eyes.
+&ldquo;Ah, you said &lsquo;Never!&rsquo; but presently you
+will come.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>So he left them.</p>
+
+<p>Olive expected to be &ldquo;poored,&rdquo; but Camille,
+as it seemed, deliberately took no notice of
+her. She watched him picking a stick of
+charcoal from the accumulation of odd
+brushes, pens and pencils on the table.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What a handsome devil it is. Lean,
+lithe and brown. He should go naked as a
+faun; such things roamed about the primeval
+woods seeking what they might devour. I
+wish I had asked him to sit for me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He went to his easel and began to sketch a
+head on the canvas he had prepared for the
+Rosamund. &ldquo;He has the short Neronic
+upper lip,&rdquo; he murmured.</p>
+
+<p>Olive lost patience. &ldquo;I wonder you had
+the heart to risk spoiling its contour,&rdquo; she said
+resentfully.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;With my fist, you mean?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I&mdash;I am very sorry&mdash;&rdquo; she began. He
+saw that she was crying, and he was perplexed,
+not quite understanding what she wanted of
+him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What am I to say to you?&rdquo; He came
+over and sat down beside her, and she let him
+hold her hand. &ldquo;I know so little&mdash;not even
+your name. I have asked no questions, but
+of course I saw&mdash;&nbsp;Why do you not go back
+to your friends?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She dried her eyes. &ldquo;I have cousins in
+Milan, but I have lost their address, and they
+would not be able to help me. I have burnt
+my boats. I used to give lessons, but it was
+not easy to find pupils, and then I met Rosina.
+I cannot go back to being a governess after
+being a model. I have done no wrong, but no
+one would have me if they knew. You see
+one has to go on&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Have you known Tor di Rocca long?
+He was here last winter. He has a villa
+somewhere outside Rome. I think it belonged
+to his mother. She was an Orsini.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You are not going to fight him?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Outside, in the ilex wood, birds were calling
+to one another. The sun gilded the green of the
+gnarled old trees; it had rained in the night,
+and the garden was sweet with the scent of
+moist earth. The young man sighed. He
+had meant to take his &ldquo;little brother&rdquo; into
+the Campagna this April day to see the spring
+pageant of the skies, to hear the singing of
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>
+larks high up at heaven&rsquo;s gate, the tinkling of
+sheep bells, the gurgling of water springs half
+hidden in the green lush grass that grows in
+the shadow of the ruined Claudian aqueducts.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Camille, answer me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He got up and went back to his easel.
+&ldquo;You must run away now,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I
+can&rsquo;t work this morning. I think I shall
+go to Naples for a few days, but I will let you
+know when I return. We must get on with the
+&lsquo;Rosamund.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She went obediently to put on her hat,
+but the face she saw reflected in the little
+hanging mirror was pale and troubled. He
+came with her to the door, and when she gave
+him her hand he bent to kiss it. Her eyes
+filled again with tears. He will be killed, she
+thought, and for me.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Don&rsquo;t fight! For my sake, don&rsquo;t. I
+shall begin to think that I am a creature of
+ill-omen. They say some women are like
+that; they have the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">mal occhio</i>; they give
+sorrow&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That is absurd,&rdquo; he said roughly, and then,
+in a changed voice, &ldquo;Good-bye, child.&rdquo;</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3>
+
+
+<p>Olive walked home to Ripetta. She felt tired
+and shaken, and unhappily conscious of some
+effort that must be made presently.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He will be killed&mdash;and for me.&rdquo; &ldquo;For
+me.&rdquo; &ldquo;For me.&rdquo; She heard that echo
+of her thought through all the clamour
+of the streets, the shrill cries, the clatter of
+hoofs, the rattling of wheels over the cobble
+stones. She heard it as she climbed the stairs
+to her room. When she had taken off her hat
+and coat she poured some eau-de-cologne
+with water into a cup and drank it&mdash;not this
+time to Italy or the joy of life. She lay down
+on her bed and stayed there for a while,
+not resting, but thinking or trying to think.</p>
+
+<p>Was she really a sort of number thirteen,
+a grain of spilt salt, ill-omened, disastrous?
+Camille would not think so; but it seemed
+to her that she had never been able to make
+anyone happy, and that there must be some
+taint in her therefore, some flaw in her nature.</p>
+
+<p>Now, here, at last, was a thing well worth
+doing. She must risk her soul, lose it, perhaps,
+or rather, exchange it for a man&rsquo;s life. She
+had hoarded it hitherto, had been miserly,
+selfish, seeking to save the poor thing as
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>
+though it were a pearl of price. Now she
+saw herself as the veriest rag of flesh parading
+virtue, useless, comfortless, helpless, clinging
+to her code, and justifying all the trouble she
+gave to others by a reference to the impalpable,
+elusive and possible non-existent
+immortal and inner self she had held so dear.
+She was ashamed. Ah, now at last she would
+give ungrudgingly. Her feet should not falter,
+nor her eyes be dimmed by any shadow of fear
+or of regret, though she went by perilous ways
+to an almost certain end.</p>
+
+<p>Soon after noon she got up and prepared
+to face the world again, and towards three
+o&rsquo;clock she returned to the Villa Medici.
+She had to ring the porter&rsquo;s bell as the garden
+gate was shut, and the old man came grumblingly
+as usual.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Monsieur Michelin will see no one. Did
+he not tell you so this morning?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;But I have come for Monsieur Gontrand,&rdquo;
+she said.</p>
+
+<p>She hoped now above all things to find the
+black Gascon alone in his <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">atelier</i> near the
+Belvedere. The first move depended upon
+him, and there was no time to spare. She
+determined to await his return in the wood if
+he were out, but there was no need. He
+opened his door at once in answer to her
+knocking.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have come&mdash;may I speak to you for a
+moment?&rdquo; she began rather confusedly. He
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
+looked tired and worried, and was so evidently
+alarmed at the sight of her, and afraid of
+what she was going to say next, that she could
+hardly help smiling. &ldquo;I want to ask you
+two questions. I hope you will answer them.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I should be glad to please you, mademoiselle,
+but&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She hurried on. &ldquo;First, when are they
+going to fight? Oh, tell me, tell me! I know
+you were to be with him. I know you are
+his friend. Be mine too! What harm can it
+do? I swear I will keep it secret.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, well, if you promise that,&rdquo; he said.
+&ldquo;It is to be to-morrow afternoon.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Where?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He shook his head. &ldquo;I really cannot tell
+you that.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, the hour is fixed. It will not be
+changed?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, the Prince preferred the early morning,
+but Michelin has an appointment he must
+keep with Vandervelde at noon.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Nothing will persuade him to alter it
+then?&rdquo; she insisted.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;That is well,&rdquo; she said sighing. &ldquo;Good-bye,
+M&rsquo;sieur Gontrand. You&mdash;you will do
+your best for Camille.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You may rely on me,&rdquo; he answered.</p>
+
+<p>She went down the steps of Trinit&agrave; del
+Monte, and across the Piazza di Spagna to the
+English book-shop at the corner, where she
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
+bought a <i>Roman Herald</i>. Three minutes
+study of the visitors&rsquo; list sufficed to inform
+her that the Prince was staying at the Hotel
+de Russie close by. The afternoon was
+waning, and already the narrow streets of the
+lower town were in shadow; soon the shops
+would be lit up and gay with the gleam of
+marbles, the glimmer of Roman pearls and
+silks, and the green, grotesque bronzes that
+strangers buy.</p>
+
+<p>Olive walked down the Via Babuino past
+the ugly English church, crossed the road,
+and entered the hall of the hotel in the wake
+of a party of Americans. They went on
+towards the lift and left her uncertain which
+way to turn, so she appealed to the gold-laced,
+gigantic, and rather awful porter.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Prince Tor di Rocca?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He softened at her mention of the illustrious
+name.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If you will go into the lounge there I will
+send to see if the Prince is in. What name
+shall I say?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Miss Agar. I have no card with
+me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She chose a window-seat near a writing-table
+at the far end of the room, and there
+Filippo found her when he came in five
+minutes later. He was prepared for anything
+but the smile in the blue eyes lifted to his,
+and he paled as he took the hand she gave
+and raised it to his lips.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; he said fervently, &ldquo;if you were
+always kind.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You would be good?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;For a week, or a month? But you need
+not answer me. Filippo, I should like some
+tea.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; he said eagerly. &ldquo;Forgive
+me,&rdquo; and he hurried away to order it.</p>
+
+<p>When he returned his dark face was radiant.
+&ldquo;Do you know that is the second time you
+have called me by my name? You said
+Filippo this morning. Ah, I heard you, and
+I have thought of it since.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The girl hardened her heart. She realised&mdash;she
+had always realised that this man was
+dangerous. A fire consumed him. It was a
+fire that blazed up to destroy, no pleasant
+light and warmth upon the hearth of a good
+life, but women were apt to flutter, moth-like,
+into the flame of it nevertheless.</p>
+
+<p>He sat down beside her and took her hand
+in his.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I know I was violent this morning; I
+could not help myself. I am a Tor di Rocca.
+It would be so easy for you to make me
+happy&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She listened quietly.</p>
+
+<p>A waiter brought the tea and set it on a
+little table between them.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You had coffee yesterday,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It
+seems years ago.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I have forgotten yesterday, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Incipit vita
+nuova</i>! Do you remember I came to you
+dressed in Dante&rsquo;s red <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">lucco</i>?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, but you are not a bit like him.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She came to the point presently. &ldquo;Filippo,
+you say you want me?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;More than anything in this world.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Her eyes met his and held them. &ldquo;Well,
+if you will get out of fighting M&rsquo;sieur Michelin
+I will come to you&mdash;meet you&mdash;anywhere
+and at any hour after noon to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, you make conditions.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Of course.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;How can I get out of fighting him? The
+man struck me, insulted me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and you know why!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have asked your pardon for that,&rdquo; he
+said with an effort that brought the colour
+into his face.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, but that is not enough. I don&rsquo;t
+choose that this unpleasantness should go
+any further. Write a letter to him now&mdash;we
+will concoct it together&mdash;and&mdash;and&mdash;I will be
+nice to you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She smiled at him, and there was no shadow
+of fear or of regret in the blue eyes that
+looked towards the almost certain end.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, I must be let down easily,&rdquo; he said
+unwillingly. &ldquo;I am not going to lick his
+boots.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They sat down at the writing-table together,
+and she began to dictate. &ldquo;Just scribble
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
+this, and if it does you can make a fair copy
+afterwards.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;<span class="smcap">Dear Monsieur Michelin</span>,&mdash;On reflection
+I understand that your conduct this
+morning was justifiable from your point of
+view, and I withdraw&mdash;&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Filippo laid down the pen. &ldquo;I shall not
+say that.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Begin again then,&rdquo; she said patiently.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;&lsquo;I have been asked to write to you by a
+third person whom I wish to please. She tells
+me that this morning&rsquo;s unpleasantness resulted
+from a misunderstanding. She says she has
+deceived you, and she hopes that you will
+forgive her. I suppose from what she has
+said that your hasty action was excusable, as
+you thought her other than she is, and I
+think that you may now regret it and agree
+with me that this need go no farther&mdash;&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;This is better for me,&rdquo; he said.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; She took the pen from him and
+wrote under his signature: &ldquo;You will be
+sorry to know that your child is a liar. Try
+to forget her existence.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You can send it now by someone who
+must wait for an answer,&rdquo; she explained. &ldquo;I
+shall stay here until it comes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; he said sulkily, and he went
+out into the hall to confer with the porter.
+&ldquo;An important letter, <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Eccellenza</i>? A <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">vetturino</i>
+will take it for you&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Olive heard the opening and shutting of
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span>
+doors, the shrill whistle answered by harsh,
+raucous cries, the rattling of wheels. Filippo
+came back to her.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I have done my part.&rdquo; Then, looking at
+her closely, he saw that she was very pale. &ldquo;Is
+all you have implied and I have written
+true?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You must love him very much.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I? Not at all, as you understand love.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The ensuing half-hour seemed long to the
+girl; Filippo talked desultorily, but there
+were intervals of silence. She was too tired
+to attempt to answer him, and, besides, his
+evident restlessness, his inattention, afforded
+her some acrid amusement. He was like a
+boy, eager in pursuit of the bird in the bush,
+heedless of the poor thing fluttering, dying in
+his hand. It was now near the dinner-hour,
+and people were coming into the lounge to
+await the sounding of the gong; from where
+Olive sat she could see all the entrances and
+exits&mdash;as in a glass darkly&mdash;in the clouded
+surface of a mirror that hung on the wall and
+reflected the white gleam of shirt fronts, the
+shimmer of silks, and she was quick to note
+that Filippo was interested in what she saw
+as a pink blur.</p>
+
+<p>His love was as fully winged for flight as
+any Beast of the book of Revelations; it was
+swift as a sword to pierce and be withdrawn.
+He could not be altogether loyal
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>
+for a day. Olive&rsquo;s heart was filled with pity
+for the women who had cared.</p>
+
+<p>When, at last, the answer to the letter
+came, the Prince gave it to her to read. It
+was very short, a mere scrawl of scarlet ink
+on the brown, rough-edged paper that was
+one of Camille&rsquo;s affectations.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>&ldquo;My zeal was evidently misplaced and I
+regret its excess.&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Olive was speechless; her eyes were dimmed,
+her throat ached with tears. How easily he
+believed the worst&mdash;this man who had been
+her friend. She rose to go, but Filippo laid
+a detaining hand upon her arm.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;To-morrow.&rdquo; He had already told her
+where and when to meet him, and had given
+her two keys.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Are you sure you want me?&rdquo; she said
+hurriedly. &ldquo;There are so many women in
+your life. You remind me of the South
+American Republic that made&mdash;and shot&mdash;seventeen
+presidents in six months.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He laughed. &ldquo;Do I? You remind me
+of an eel, or a little grey mouse trying
+to get out of a trap. There is no way out,
+my dear, unless, of course, you want me
+to kill your Frenchman. I am a good
+shot.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I will come.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She looked for pink as she went out of the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>
+room, and saw a very pretty woman in rose-coloured
+tulle sitting alone and near the
+door.</p>
+
+<p>She had given ungrudgingly, unfaltering,
+and there was no shadow of regret in her eyes;
+it was nothing to her that he should care for
+this other little body, for bare white shoulders
+and a fluff of yellow hair. He had never been
+more to her than a means to an end, and he
+was to be that now.</p>
+
+<p>She took a tram from the Piazza del Popolo
+to the Rotonda. There was a large ironmonger&rsquo;s
+shop at the corner; she remembered
+having noticed it before. She went in and
+asked to look at some of the pistols they had
+in the window. Several were brought out
+for her to see, and she chose a small one.
+The young man who served her showed her
+how to load it and pull the trigger. He
+wrapped it in brown paper and made a loop
+in the string for her to carry it by. She
+thanked him.</p>
+
+<p>The bells of all the churches were ringing
+the Ave Maria when she left the Hotel de
+Russie an hour ago, and it was dark when
+she reached her own room. The stars were
+bright, shining through a rift of clouds that
+hid the crescent moon. Olive laid the
+awkwardly-shaped parcel she carried down
+upon the table while she lit her candle.
+Then she got her scissors and cut the string.
+This was the key of a door through
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span>
+which she must pass. Death was the way
+out.</p>
+
+<p>The little flame of the candle gleamed on
+the polished steel. It was almost a pretty
+thing, so smooth and shining. It was well
+worth the money she had paid for it; it
+was going to be useful, indispensable to-morrow.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly, in spite of herself, she began to
+think of her grave. It would be dug soon.
+She would be brought to it in a black covered
+cart. No prayers would be said, and there
+would be no sound at all but that of the earth
+falling upon the coffin.</p>
+
+<p>She sprang up, her face chalk white, her
+eyes wide and dark with terror. She was
+afraid, horribly afraid of this lonely and
+violent end. Jean would never know that she
+died rather than let another man&mdash;Jean
+would never know&mdash;Jean&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I can&rsquo;t! I can&rsquo;t!&rdquo; she said aloud
+piteously.</p>
+
+<p>She was trembling so that she had to cling
+to the banisters as she went down the stairs
+to save herself from falling. There was a
+post-office at the corner. She went in and
+explained that she wanted to send a telegram.
+The young woman behind the counter
+glanced at the clock.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Where to? You have half an hour.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;To Florence.&rdquo; She wrote it and gave
+it in.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>
+&ldquo;To <span class="smcap">Jean Avenel</span>, Villa Fiorelli, Settignano,
+Florence.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;If you would help me come if you can
+to the Villino Bella Vista at Albano to-morrow
+soon after noon; watch for me and follow
+me in. I know it may not be possible, but
+the danger is real to me and I want you so
+much. In any case remember that my heart
+was yours only.&mdash;<span class="smcap">Olive.</span>&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3>
+
+
+<p>Jean sat leaning forward that he might see
+the road. The night was dark, starless, and
+very wet, and he and the chauffeur were all
+streaming with rain and splashed with liquid
+mud that spattered up from the car wheels.
+Now and again they rattled over the rough
+cobble stones of a village street, but the way
+for the most part lay through deep woods
+and by mountain gorges. The roar of Arno in
+flood, swollen with melted snows, and hurrying
+on its way to the sea, was with them for a
+while, but other sounds there were none save the
+rustling of leaves in the coverts, the moaning
+of wind in the tree-tops, the drip-drip of the
+rain, and the steady throbbing of the car.</p>
+
+<p>When the darkness lightened to the grey
+glimmer of a cheerless dawn Jean changed
+places with the chauffeur; Vincenzo was a
+careful driver, and he dared not trust his own
+impatience any longer. His hands were
+numbed with cold, and now he took off his
+gloves to chafe them, but first he felt in his
+inner pocket for the flimsy sheets of paper
+that lay there safe against his heart.</p>
+
+<p>He had been sitting alone at the piano in
+the music-room, not playing, but softly touching
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>
+the keys and dreaming in the dark, when
+Hilaire came in to him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You need not write to her after all. She
+has sent for you. Hear what she says.&rdquo; He
+stood in the doorway to read the message by
+the light that filtered in from the hall. Jean
+listened carefully.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The car&mdash;I must tell Vincenzo.&rdquo; The
+lines of the strong, lean face seemed to have
+softened, and the brown eyes were very bright.
+His brother smiled as he laid a kindly hand
+upon his arm. &ldquo;The car will be round soon.
+I have sent word, and you have plenty of
+time. Assure Olive of my brotherly regard,
+and tell her that my books are still waiting to
+be catalogued. If she will come here for a
+while she will be doing a kindness to a lonely
+man.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I wonder what she is frightened of,&rdquo;
+Jean said thoughtfully, and frowning a little.
+&ldquo;She says &lsquo;was yours&rsquo; too; I don&rsquo;t like
+that.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Well, you must do your best for her,&rdquo;
+Hilaire answered in his most matter-of-fact
+tone. &ldquo;Be prepared.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean agreed, and when he went to get
+ready he transferred a pistol from a drawer
+of the bureau to his coat pocket. &ldquo;I shall
+bring her back with me if I can. Good-bye.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The sun shone for a few minutes after its
+rising through a rift in the clouds, but soon
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
+went in again; the rain still poured down,
+and the distance was hidden in mist that clung
+to the hillsides and filled each ravine and
+cranny in the rocks. They were near Orvieto
+when the car broke down; Vincenzo was out
+on the road at once, but his master sat quite
+still. He could not endure the thought of
+any delay.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What is it? Will it take long?&rdquo; He
+had forced himself to wait a minute before
+he asked the question, but still his lips felt
+stiff, and all the colour had gone out of
+them.</p>
+
+<p>The man reassured him. &ldquo;It is nothing.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean went to help him, and soon they were
+able to go on again.</p>
+
+<p>They came presently to the fen lands&mdash;the
+Campagna that so greatly needs the magic
+and glamour of the Roman sunshine, the
+vault of the blue sky above, and the sound of
+larks singing to adorn it. It seemed a desolate
+and dreary waste, wind-swept, and shivering
+under the lash of the rain on such a
+morning as this, and the car was a very small
+thing moving in that apparently illimitable
+plain along a road that might be endless.
+Jean saw a herd of the wild, black buffaloes
+standing in a pool at the foot of a broken
+arch of the Claudian aqueduct, and now and
+again he caught a glimpse of fragments of
+masonry, or a ruined tower, ancient stronghold
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>
+of one or other of the robber barons who
+preyed on Rome-ward pilgrims in the age of
+faith and rapine.</p>
+
+<p>They reached Albano soon after eleven
+o&rsquo;clock, and Jean left his man in the car while
+he went in to the Ristorante of the Albergo
+della Posta. He ordered a cup of coffee, and
+sat down at one of the little marble tables near
+the door to drink it. There was no one else
+in the place at the moment.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Can you tell me the way to the Villino
+Bella Vista?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The waiter looked at him curiously. &ldquo;It
+is down in the olive woods and quite near the
+lake, and you must go to it by a lane from
+the Galleria di Sopra, the upper road to Castel
+Gandolfo.&rdquo; After a momentary hesitation
+he added, &ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Scusi!</em> But are you thinking
+of taking it, signore?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean started. It had not occurred to him
+that the house might be empty. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t
+know,&rdquo; he answered cautiously. &ldquo;Has it been
+to let long?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, yes,&rdquo; the man said. &ldquo;The Princess
+Tor di Rocca spent her last years there, alone,
+and after her death the agent in Rome found
+tenants. But lately no one has come to it,
+even to see.&rdquo; He lowered his voice. &ldquo;The
+place has a bad name hereabouts. The
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">contadini</i>&mdash;rough, ignorant folk, signore&mdash;say
+she still walks in the garden at moonrise,
+waiting for the husband and son who never
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span>
+came; and the women who go to wash their
+linen in the lake will not come back that
+way at night for fear of seeing her dead eyes
+peering at them through the bars of the
+gate.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Ah, that is very interesting,&rdquo; Jean said
+appreciatively. He finished his coffee, paid
+for it with a piece of silver, and waited to light
+a cigarette before he went out.</p>
+
+<p>Vincenzo sat still in the car, a model of
+patient impassivity, but he turned a hungry
+eye on his master as he came down the
+steps.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You can go and get something to eat.
+I shall drive up to the Galleria di Sopra, and
+you must follow me there. You will find the
+car at the side of the road. Stay with it until
+I come, and if anyone asks questions you need
+not answer them.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean drove up the steep hill towards the
+lake. The rain was still heavy, and the
+squalid streets of the little town were running
+with mud. He turned to the left by the
+Calvary at the foot of the ilex avenue by the
+Capuchin church, and stopped the car some
+way further down the road. The lane the
+waiter had told him of was not hard to find.
+It was a narrow path between high walls of
+olive orchards; it led straight down to the
+lake, and the entrance to the Villino was quite
+close to the water&rsquo;s edge. Nothing could be
+seen of it from the lane but the name painted
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span>
+on the gate-posts and one glimpse of a shuttered
+window, forlorn and viewless as a blind eye,
+and half hidden by flowering laurels. Jean
+looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to
+twelve, and she had written &ldquo;after noon,&rdquo;
+but he could not be sure that she had not
+come already, and since he had heard the
+name of Tor di Rocca he was more than ever
+anxious to be with her.</p>
+
+<p>He tried the gate but it was locked; there
+was nothing for it but to climb the wall, and
+as he was light and active he scrambled over
+without much difficulty and landed in a green
+tangle of roses and wild vines. He knocked
+at the house door, and stood for a while
+listening to the empty answering echoes and
+to the drip-drip of rain from the eaves.
+Evidently there was no one there. He drew
+back into the shrubberies; great showers of
+drops were shaken down on him from the
+gold-powdered mimosa blossoms that met
+above his head; he shook himself impatiently,
+like a dog that is disturbed while on guard.
+From where he stood he could see the gate
+and the grass-grown path that led from it to
+the house. The time passed very slowly. He
+looked at his watch four times in the next
+fifteen minutes, and he was beginning to
+wonder if he had not left Florence on a fool&rsquo;s
+errand when Olive came.</p>
+
+<p>He saw her fumbling with the key; it was
+hard to turn in the rusty lock, and she had
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span>
+to close her umbrella and stand it against the
+wall so as to have both hands free. The gate
+swung open slowly, creaking on its warped
+hinges. Jean noticed that she left it unlatched
+and that she looked back over her shoulder
+twice as she came down the path, as though
+she thought someone might be following
+her.</p>
+
+<p>She opened the house door with a key she
+had and went in, and he came after her. He
+stood for a moment on the threshold listening.
+She was hurrying from room to room, opening
+the shutters and the windows and letting in
+the light and air; the doors banged after her,
+and muslin curtains flapped like wings as the
+wind blew them.</p>
+
+<p>His heart was beating so that he thought
+she must hear it before she saw him, before
+his step sounded in the passage. As he came
+in she gave a sort of little cry and ran to him,
+and he put his arms about her and kissed her
+again and again; her dear lips that were wet
+and cold with rain, her soft brown hair, the
+curves of cheek and chin that were as sweet
+to feel as to see. One small hand held the
+lapel of his coat, and he was pleasantly aware
+of the other being laid about his neck. She
+had wanted him so much&mdash;and he had come.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Thank God, you are here, Jean. Oh, if
+you knew how frightened I have been.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He kissed her once more, and then, framing
+her face with his hands, he looked down into
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>
+her eyes. The blue eyes yearned to his, but
+there was fear in them still, and he saw
+the colour he had brought into her cheeks
+fading.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am not worth all the trouble I have
+given you.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Perhaps not,&rdquo; he said, smiling. &ldquo;Hilaire
+sent you a long message, but I want to hear
+what we are supposed to be doing here
+first.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Dear Hilaire!... Jean, you won&rsquo;t be
+angry?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t promise anything,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I
+shall probably be furious. But in any case,
+if it is going to be a long story we may as well
+make ourselves at home.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Not here! I must tell you quickly,
+before he comes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He noticed that she looked towards the
+door, and he understood that she was listening
+fearfully for the creaking of the gate, the
+sound of footsteps on the path outside, the
+turning of the key in the lock.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Tor di Rocca, I suppose? When is he
+coming?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Between one and two.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We have at least half an hour then,&rdquo;
+he said comfortably, and drew her closer
+to him with his arm about her shoulders.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;When I first came to Rome I tried for
+weeks to get something to do, but no one
+seemed to want lessons. Then one day Signora
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>
+Aurelia&rsquo;s sister told me how poor she was.
+She cried, and I was very much upset because
+I felt I was a burden, and that very afternoon
+I found out a way of making money ...
+Jean, you won&rsquo;t be angry?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, dearest.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I became a model&mdash;&rdquo; She paused, but he
+said nothing and she went on. &ldquo;I sat for
+one man only after the first week, and he was
+always good and kind to me, always. He
+painted a picture of me&mdash;I think you would
+like it&mdash;and the day before yesterday he
+had a show of his work. A lot of people
+came. I did not see Prince Tor di Rocca,
+but he was there, and after a while he
+spoke to me. I had met him before and I
+understood from what he said that Mamie
+Whittaker had broken her engagement with
+him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The next morning M&rsquo;sieur Camille had to go
+out, and I was alone in the studio when the
+Prince came in and tried to make love to me.
+I was frightened, and I screamed, and just
+then Camille returned, and he knocked him
+down. He got up again at once. Nothing
+much was said, and he went away, but I
+understood that they were going to fight. I
+went home and thought about it, and when
+I realised that one or other of them might be
+killed I felt I could not bear it.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I am so afraid of death, Jean. I try to
+believe in a future life, but that will be different,
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
+and I want the people I love in this one; just
+human, looking tired sometimes and shabby,
+or happy and pleased about things. I remember
+my mother had a blue hat that
+suited her, and I can&rsquo;t think of it now without
+tears, because I long to see her pinning it on
+before the glass and asking me if it is straight,
+and I suppose I shall never see or hear that
+again, even if we do meet in heaven. Death
+is so absolutely the end. If only people are
+alive distance and absence don&rsquo;t really matter;
+there is always hope. And then, you know,
+Camille is so brilliant; it would be a loss
+to France, to the whole world, if he was
+killed.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What did you say his name was?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Camille Michelin.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I know him then. He came to me
+once in Paris, after a concert, and fell on my
+neck without an introduction. Afterwards
+he painted my portrait.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He is nice, isn&rsquo;t he?&rdquo; she said eagerly.</p>
+
+<p>He assented. &ldquo;Well, go on. You could
+not let them fight&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I went to see the Prince at his hotel,
+and I persuaded him to write a sort of
+apology.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You persuaded him. How?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Jean, that man is the exact opposite of
+the centurion&rsquo;s servant; say &lsquo;go&rsquo; and he
+stays, &lsquo;don&rsquo;t do it&rsquo; and he does it. And I
+once made the fatal mistake of telling him I
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>
+could never love him. He did not want me
+to before, but now&mdash;&nbsp;He is a spoilt boy
+who only cares for the fruit that is forbidden
+or withheld. It is the scaling of the orchard
+wall that he enjoys; if he could walk in by
+the gate in broad daylight I am sure he never
+would, or, at any rate, he would soon walk out
+again. I promised to come here alone to
+meet him, and not to tell Camille, and I have
+kept my promise. If you knew how frightened
+I was.... I thought you might be away,
+and that Hilaire perhaps could not come in
+your stead, though I knew he would if it were
+possible.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The man left her then and went to
+the window, where he stood looking out
+upon the driving mist and rain that made
+the troubled waters of the lake seem
+grey, and shrouded all the wooded hills
+beyond.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Suppose I had not come,&rdquo; he said
+presently. &ldquo;What would you have done?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You ask that?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He turned upon her. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he said
+hardly, &ldquo;just that.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She took a small pistol from the pocket
+of her loose sac coat and gave it to him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;So you were going to shoot him? I
+thought&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She tried to still the quivering of her lips.
+&ldquo;No, myself. Oh, I am not really inconsistent.
+I told you I was afraid of death. I
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span>
+will say all now and have done; I am afraid
+of life too, with its long slow pains, and
+most of all of what men call love. I don&rsquo;t
+want to go on,&rdquo; she cried hysterically. &ldquo;I
+am sick. I don&rsquo;t want to see, or hear, or
+feel anything any more. I have had
+enough. All this year I have struggled,
+and people have been kind; but friendship
+is a poor, weak thing, and love&mdash;love is
+hateful.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She hid her face in her hands.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Rubbish!&rdquo; he said, and then, in a changed
+voice, &ldquo;My darling, you will be better soon.
+I must get you away from here.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Gently he drew her hands away from her
+face and lifted them to his lips; the soft
+palms were wet with tears.</p>
+
+<p>They were standing on the threshold of an
+inner room. &ldquo;You can go in here until I
+have done with Tor di Rocca,&rdquo; he said.
+&ldquo;But first I must tell you that Gertrude has
+written to me asking me to get a divorce.
+There is a man, of course, and the case will
+not be defended. Olive, will you marry me
+when I am free?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, Jean, I&mdash;I am so glad.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You will marry me then?&rdquo; he insisted.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;How thin you are, my dear. Just a very
+nice bag of bones. Were&mdash;were you sorry
+when I came away?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;You little torment,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Answer
+me.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Ask again. I want to hear.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Will you marry me?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, of course.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>A nightingale began to sing in the garden;
+broken notes, a mere echo of what the stars
+heard at night, but infinitely sweet as the soul
+of a rose made audible; and as he sang a
+sudden ray of sunshine shot the grey rain with
+silver. It seemed to Jean that rose-sweetness
+was all about him in this his short triumph
+of love; that a flower&rsquo;s heart beat against his
+own, that a flower&rsquo;s lips caressed the lean
+darkness of his cheek. There were threads
+of gold in the soft brown tangle of hair&mdash;gold
+unalloyed as was the hard-won happiness that
+made him feel himself invincible, panoplied
+in an armour of joy that should defend them
+from all slings and arrows. He was happy,
+and so the world seemed full of music; there
+was harmony in the swaying of tall dark
+cypresses, moved by winds that strewed the
+grass with torn petals of orange blossoms
+from the trees by the lake side, in the clouds&rsquo;
+processional, in the patter of rain on the green
+shining laurel leaves.</p>
+
+<p>Laurels&mdash;his laurels had been woven in
+with rue, and latterly with rosemary for dear
+remembrance; he had never cared greatly
+for his fame and it seemed worthless to him
+now that he had realised his dream and
+gathered his rose.</p>
+
+<p>He was impatient to be gone, to take the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>
+woman he loved out of this house of sad
+memories, of empty echoes, of dust and rust
+and decay. Already he seemed to feel the
+rush of the cold night air, to hear the roar of
+Arno, hurrying to the sea, above the steady
+throbbing of the car; to see the welcoming
+lights of home shining out of the dark at
+the steep edge of the hills above Settignano.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;About the Prince,&rdquo; he said presently.
+&ldquo;Am I to fight him?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>She started. &ldquo;Oh, no! That would be
+worse than ever. I thought you were too
+English for that,&rdquo; she said na&iuml;vely.</p>
+
+<p>He smiled. &ldquo;Well, perhaps I am, but I
+suppose there may be a bit of a scuffle. You
+won&rsquo;t mind that?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; she said helplessly.</p>
+
+<p>A moment later they heard the gate
+creak as it swung on its hinges. &ldquo;He is
+coming.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>They kissed hurriedly, with, on her side, a
+passion of farewell, and he would have made
+her go into the room beyond, but she clung
+to him, crying incoherently. &ldquo;No ... no
+... together ...&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Tor di Rocca stopped short by the door;
+the smile that had been in his hot eyes as
+they met Olive&rsquo;s faded, and the short, Neronic
+upper lip lifted in a sort of snarl.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t quite understand,&rdquo; he said.
+&ldquo;How did you come here? This is my house,
+Avenel.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>
+&ldquo;I know it, and I do not wish to trespass
+on your hospitality. You will excuse
+us?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But the Prince stood in the way. &ldquo;I am
+not a child to be played with. I&rsquo;ll not let
+her go. You may leave us, however,&rdquo; he
+added, and he stood aside as though to let
+him pass.</p>
+
+<p>Jean met his angry eyes. &ldquo;The lady is
+unwilling. Let that be the end,&rdquo; he said
+quietly.</p>
+
+<p>Olive watched the Italian fearfully; his
+face was writhen, and all semblance of beauty
+had gone out of it; its gnawing, tearing,
+animal ferocity was appalling. When he
+called to her she moved instinctively nearer
+to Jean, and then with the swift prescience
+of love threw herself on his breast, tried to
+shelter him, as the other drew his revolver
+and fired.</p>
+
+<p>Jean had his arm about her, but he let her
+slip now and fall in a huddled heap at his feet.
+She was safer there, and out of the way. The
+two men exchanged several shots, but Jean&rsquo;s
+went wide; he was hampered by his heavy
+motor coat, and the second bullet had scored
+its way through his flesh before he could get
+at his weapon; there were four in his body
+when he dropped.</p>
+
+<p>Tor di Rocca leant against the wall; he
+was unhurt, but he felt a little faint and sick
+for the moment. Hurriedly he rehearsed
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
+what he should say to the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Questore</i> presently.
+He had met the girl in this house of his;
+Avenel, her lover, had broken in upon them;
+he had shot her and fired at the Prince himself,
+but without effect, and he had killed him in
+self-defence.</p>
+
+<p>That was plain enough, but it was essential
+that his should be the only version, and when
+the smoke cleared away he crossed the room
+to look at the two who must speak no word,
+and to make sure.</p>
+
+<p>The man was still alive for all the lead in
+him; Tor di Rocca watched, with a sort of
+cruel, boyish interest in the creature he had
+maimed, as slowly, painfully, Jean dragged
+himself a little nearer to where the girl lay,
+tried to rise, and fell heavily. Surely he was
+dead now&mdash;but no; his hands still clawed at
+the carpet, and when Tor di Rocca stamped
+on his fingers he moaned as he tried to
+draw them away. Olive lived too, but
+her breathing was so faint that it would
+be easily stifled; the pressure of his hand
+even, but Filippo shrank from that. He
+could not touch the flesh that would be
+dust presently because of him. He hesitated,
+and then, muttering to himself, went
+to take one of the cushions from the window
+seat.</p>
+
+<p>Out in the garden the nightingale had not
+ceased to sing; the cypresses swayed in the
+winds that shook the promise of fruit from
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>
+the trees; the green and rose and gold of a
+rainbow made fair the clouds&rsquo; processional.
+The world was still full of music, of transitory
+life and joy, of dreams that have an
+ending.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER IX</h3>
+
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Via!</em>&rdquo; said Vincenzo, and his black, oily
+forefinger, uplifted, gave emphasis to his
+words. &ldquo;There are no such things as ghosts.
+This princess of yours cannot be seen at
+moonrise, or at any other time.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>There is no room for faith in the swelled
+head of young Italy, but the waiter was a
+middle-aged man. He paused in the act of
+re-filling the customer&rsquo;s cup. &ldquo;You do not
+believe, then?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The Tuscan looked at him with all the
+scarcely-veiled contempt of the North for the
+South. &ldquo;You tell me you are a Calabrian.
+<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Si vede!</em> You listen to all the priests say;
+you go down on your knees in the mud when
+the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">frati</i> are carrying a wax doll about the
+roads; you think a splinter of bone from the
+ribs of some fool who would not enjoy life
+while it lasted will cure a dropsy or a broken
+leg; you hope the rain will stop because a
+holy toe-nail is exposed on the altar. Ghosts,
+visions, miracles!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Vincenzo Torrigiani was the son of a stone-cutter
+in the village of Settignano, and he
+had worked as a boy in the gardens of the
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
+Villa Fiorelli. After a while the master had
+noticed and had taken a fancy to him, chiefly
+on account of his ever-ready and unusually
+dazzling and expansive smile, and he had
+been sent to a garage in Milan for six months.
+The quick-witted Florentine learned a great
+many things in a short time besides the
+necessary smattering of mechanics and the
+management of cars, and on his return he
+displayed many new airs and graces in addition,
+fortunately, to the same old smile. Later on
+he spent the obligatory two years in barracks,
+in a regiment of Bersaglieri, and came back
+to Avenel&rsquo;s service plus a still more varied
+knowledge of the world, a waxed moustache,
+and a superficial tendency to atheism. He
+was always delighted to air his views, and he
+fixed the shocked waiter now with a glittering
+eye as he proceeded to recite his unbelief
+at some length.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;God is merely man&rsquo;s idea of himself at his
+best, and the devil is his idea of other people
+at their worst,&rdquo; he concluded.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Would you spend a night alone in this
+haunted house?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sicuro!</em>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Perhaps you will have to if your master
+takes the place. He has gone to look at it.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Vincenzo gulped down the last of his coffee.
+&ldquo;I must go,&rdquo; he said, but he was much too
+Italian to understand that a man in a hurry
+need not count his change twice over or
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>
+bite every piece of silver to make sure
+of it.</p>
+
+<p>It was nearly one o&rsquo;clock when, having outdistanced
+the pack of beggars that followed
+at his heels through the narrow streets of the
+town, he came out upon the broad, tree-shadowed
+upper road. He had stopped for
+a moment in the shelter of the high wall of the
+Capuchin convent to light a cigarette, and
+thereafter he went on unseeingly, in a brown
+study. Had he or had he not paid two soldi
+more than he should have done for the packet?
+A Calabrian would cheat, if possible, of course.</p>
+
+<p>When, after much mental arithmetic,
+Vincenzo solved the problem to his own
+satisfaction the little scrap of bad tobacco in
+its paper lining was smoked out. He looked
+at his watch, a Christmas present from Jean,
+and seeing that it was past the hour he began
+to wonder. There were no ghosts, and in
+any case they were not dangerous in broad
+daylight. There were no ghosts, but what
+was the signorino doing all this while in an
+empty house? The car was there, drawn
+up at the side of the road under the trees, and
+Vincenzo fussed round it, pulling the tarpaulin
+covers more over the seats; he had them in
+place when it occurred to him to look underneath
+for the fur rug. It was not there.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Dio mio!</em>&rdquo; he cried excitedly. &ldquo;It has
+been stolen.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Someone passing by must have seen it and
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>
+taken it, probably someone with a cart, as it
+would be heavy to carry. The thief could not
+have gone far, and Vincenzo thought that if
+he drove the car towards Castel Gandolfo he
+might catch him, whoever he was&mdash;charcoal-burner
+from the woods beyond Rocca di Papa,
+peasant carting barrels of Frascati wine, or
+perhaps a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">frate</i> from the convent. However,
+he dared not attempt it as the signorino had
+said &ldquo;Wait.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>After a few minutes of miserable uncertainty,
+during which he invoked the assistance of the
+saints&mdash;&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Che fare! Che fare! Santa
+Vergine, aiutatemi!</em>&rdquo; he decided to go and
+find the signorino himself. He was half way
+down the lane when he heard shots. He had
+been hurrying, but he began to run then,
+and the last echo had not died away when
+he reached the gate of the Villino. It creaked
+on its hinges as he passed in, but no one in the
+house was listening for it now. He went in at
+the door, and now he was very swift and silent,
+very intent. There was a smell of powder in
+the passage, and someone was moving about
+in the room beyond. Vincenzo felt for the
+long sharp knife in his hip pocket before he
+softly turned the handle of the door.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Signore! What has happened?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Filippo Tor di Rocca started violently and
+uttered a sort of cry as he turned to see the
+man who stood on the threshold staring at
+him. There was a queer silence before he
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>
+spoke, moistening his lips at almost every
+word.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I&mdash;I&mdash;you heard shots, I suppose.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The servant&rsquo;s quick eyes noted the recent
+disorder of the room: chairs overturned,
+white splinters of plaster fallen from the ceiling,
+a mirror broken. Into what trap had his
+master fallen? What was there hidden behind
+the table&mdash;on the floor? There were scrabbled
+finger-marks&mdash;red marks&mdash;in the dust.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I was here with a lady whom I wished to
+take this house when a man burst in upon us.
+He shot her, and tried to shoot me, and I
+drew upon him in self-defence.&rdquo; The Prince
+spoke haltingly. He had not been prepared
+to lie so soon.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What are you doing with that cushion?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Filippo looked down guiltily at the frilled
+thing he held. &ldquo;I was going to put it under
+her head,&rdquo; he began, but the other was not
+listening. He had come forward into the room
+and he had seen. The huddled heap of black
+and grey close at the Prince&rsquo;s feet was human&mdash;a
+woman&mdash;and he knew the young pale
+face, veiled as it was in brown, loosened hair
+threaded with gold. A woman; and the man
+who lay there too, his dark head resting on her
+breast, his lips laid against her throat, was his
+master, Jean Avenel.</p>
+
+<p>He uttered a hoarse cry of rage. &ldquo;Murderer!
+You did it!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But Tor di Rocca had recovered himself
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span>
+somewhat and the bold, hard face was a mask
+through which the red eyes gleamed wickedly.
+&ldquo;Fool!&rdquo; he answered impatiently. &ldquo;It was
+as I said. The man was mad with jealousy.
+There is his pistol on the floor. I am going
+now to inform the authorities and to fetch
+the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">carabinieri</i>.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He went out, and Vincenzo did not try to
+prevent him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Signorino! signorino! answer me.
+<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Madonna benedetta!</em> What shall I say to
+Ser &rsquo;Ilario?&rdquo; The little man&rsquo;s face worked,
+and tears ran down his cheeks as he knelt
+there at his master&rsquo;s side, stooping to feel for
+the fluttering of the faint breath, the beating
+of the pulse of life. Surely there was no mortal
+wound&mdash;the shoulder&mdash;yes; and the side,
+and the right arm, since all the sleeve was
+soaked in warm blood.</p>
+
+<p>All those who have been dragged down into
+the great darkness that shrouds the gate of
+Death know that the first sense vouchsafed to
+the returning soul is that of hearing. There
+was a sound of the sea in Jean&rsquo;s ears, a weary
+sound of wailing and distress, through which
+words came presently by ones and twos and
+threes. Words that seemed a long way off, and
+yet near, as though they were stones dropped
+upon him from a great height: ... signorina
+... not mortal ... healed ... care ...
+twenty masses to the Madonna at the <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Santissima
+Annunziata</i> ...</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>
+Sight came next as the sea that had roared
+about him seemed to ebb, leaving him still
+on the shore of this world. He opened his
+eyes and lay for a moment staring up at the
+white ceiling until full consciousness returned,
+and with it the sharp, stabbing pain of his
+wounds, the acrid taste of blood in his mouth,
+the remembrance of love. Olive.... Had
+he not tried to reach her and failed? He
+groaned as he turned his aching head now on
+the pillow to see her where she lay.</p>
+
+<p>Vincenzo had cared for his master, had slit
+up that red, wet sleeve with his sharp knife,
+and had bandaged the torn flesh as well as he
+was able; and now, very gently, but without
+any skill, he was fumbling at the girl&rsquo;s breast.</p>
+
+<p>Jean made an effort to speak but his lips
+made no intelligible sounds at first. The
+servant came running to him joyfully nevertheless.
+&ldquo;Signorino! You are better?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The kind brown eyes smiled through the
+dimness of their pain.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Good Vincenzo ... well done. She
+... she&rsquo;s not dead?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Oh, no, signorino&mdash;at least&mdash;I am not sure,&rdquo;
+the man faltered.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;The wound is near the heart, is it not?
+Lay her down here beside me and I will keep
+it closed with my hand,&rdquo; Jean said faintly.
+&ldquo;Lift her and lay her down here in the hollow
+of my unhurt arm.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No ... no!&rdquo; she had cried. &ldquo;Together.&rdquo;
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span>
+No other man should touch her&mdash;if she died
+it must be in his arms. How still she was,
+how little warmth of life was there to cherish,
+how small a fluttering of the dear heart under
+his hand&rsquo;s pressure....</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Go now and get help.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Vincenzo made no answer, but his eyes
+were like those of a faithful dog, anguished,
+appealing, and he knelt to kiss the poor
+fingers that had been bruised under that cruel
+heel before he went out of the room.</p>
+
+<p>Very softly he closed and locked the door, and
+then stood for a while in the close darkness of
+the passage, listening. That devil&mdash;he wanted
+them to die&mdash;suppose he should be lurking
+somewhere about the house, waiting for the
+servant to go that he might finish his work.</p>
+
+<p>The Tor di Rocca were hard and swift and
+cruel as steel. That Duchess Veronica, who
+had brought her husband the other woman&rsquo;s
+severed head, wrapped in fine linen of her own
+weaving, as a New Year&rsquo;s gift!&mdash;she had been
+one of them. Then there had lived one Filippo
+who kept his younger brother chained up to
+the wall of some inner room of his Florentine
+palace for seventeen years, until, at last, a
+serving-man dared to go and tell of the sound
+of blows in the night hours, the moaning,
+the clank of a chain, and the people broke in,
+and hanged the Prince from the wrought-iron
+<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fanale</i> outside his own gate.</p>
+
+<p>Vincenzo knew of all these old, past horrors;
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>
+the Florentines had made ballads of them,
+and sang them in the streets, and one might
+buy &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">L&rsquo;Assassina</i>,&rdquo; or &ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Il Fratello del
+Principe</i>,&rdquo; printed on little sheets of coarse
+paper, on the stalls in the Mercato, for one
+soldo. So, though the house was very still,
+the little man drew his long knife and read
+the motto scratched on the blade before he
+climbed the stairs.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Non ti fidar a me se il cor ti manca.</i>&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Hurriedly he passed through every room,
+but there was no one there, and so he ran out
+into the dripping green wilderness of torn
+leaves and storm-tossed, drenched blossoms,
+and up the lane, between the high walls of the
+olive orchards, to the town.</p>
+
+<p>Don Filippo was really gone, and he was
+waiting now on the platform of the Albano
+station for the train that should take him
+back to Rome. He was not, however, presenting
+the spectacle of the murderer fleeing
+from his crime. He was quite calm. The
+heat and cruelty of the Tor di Rocca blood
+flared in him, but it burned with no steady
+flame. He had not the tenacity of his forefathers;
+and so, though he might kill his
+brother, he would not care to torment him
+during long years. Hate palled on him as
+quickly as love. He was content to leave
+the lives of Jean Avenel and of Olive on the
+knees of the gods.</p>
+
+<p>There was no pity, no tenderness in him to
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span>
+be stirred by the remembrance of blue eyes
+dilated with fear, of loosened brown hair, of
+the small thing that had lain in a huddled
+heap at his feet, and he was not afraid of any
+consequences affecting him. In Italy the plea
+of jealousy covers a multitude of sins, and he
+was sure that a jury would acquit him if he
+were charged with murder.</p>
+
+<p>How many hundred years had passed since
+Pilate had called for water to wash his hands!
+Filippo&mdash;reminded in some way of the Roman
+governor&mdash;felt that same need. His hands
+were not clean&mdash;there was dust on them&mdash;and
+it seemed that the one thing that really
+might clog his thoughts and tarnish them
+later on was the dust on a frilled cushion.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p>
+
+<h3>CHAPTER X</h3>
+
+
+<p>To some men their world is most precious when
+their arms may compass it. These are the
+great lovers. It seemed to Jean now that it
+mattered little whether this grey hour of rain
+and silence preluded life or death. Presently
+they would come to the edge of the
+stream called Lethe, and then he, making a
+cup of his hands, would give the woman he
+loved to drink of the waters of forgetfulness,
+and all remembrance of loneliness and tears,
+and of the pain that ached now in his side
+and in her shot breast would pass away.</p>
+
+<p>He looked down from a great height and
+saw:</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i4">&ldquo;<i>the curled moon</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Was like a little feather</i><br /></span>
+<span class="i0"><i>Fluttering far down the gulf;</i>&rdquo;<br /></span>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p>and the round world, a caught fly, wrapped
+in a web of clouds, hung by a slender thread
+of some huge spider&rsquo;s spinning. There was
+a dark mark upon it that spread and reddened
+until it seemed to be a stain of blood on a
+woman&rsquo;s breast. She had been pale, but the
+colour had come again when he had kissed
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>
+her. It was gone now. Was it all in the red
+that oozed between his fingers?</p>
+
+<p>In the twilight of his senses stray thoughts
+fluttered and passed like white moths. Was
+that the roar of voices? The hall was full and
+they wanted him, but he could not play again.
+Love was best. He would stay in the garden
+with Olive.</p>
+
+<p>What were they asking for? A nocturne&mdash;yes;
+it was getting dark, and the sea was
+rising&mdash;that was the sound of the sea.</p>
+
+<p class="padtop">The doctor Vincenzo had brought in rose
+from his knees and stood thoughtfully wiping
+his hands on a piece of lint.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;We must see about extracting the bullets
+later on. One went clean through his arm
+and so has saved us the trouble. As to her&mdash;I
+am not sure&mdash;but I think the injury may
+not be so serious as it now appears. She
+was evidently stunned. She must have struck
+her head against the table in falling.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Can they be moved?&rdquo; the servant asked
+anxiously. &ldquo;My master would not care to
+stay on here. Can you take them into your
+house, and&mdash;and not say anything?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The doctor hesitated. He was a bald, grey-whiskered
+man, fat and flaccid. His cuffs
+were frayed and there were wine-stains on his
+shabby clothes. He was very poor.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;I should inform the authorities,&rdquo; he
+said.</p>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span>
+&ldquo;Oh, I don&rsquo;t think that is necessary. It
+would be worth your while not to.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Jean&rsquo;s fur coat had been thrown across a
+chair. The doctor eyed it carefully. It was
+worth more lire than he had ever possessed at
+one time.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The vineyard across
+the lane is mine. We can go to my house that
+way and take them through the gate without
+ever coming out on to the road. I will go
+and tell my housekeeper to get the rooms
+ready.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Vincenzo&rsquo;s face brightened. &ldquo;I will go in
+the car to-night to fetch the master&rsquo;s brother.
+He is very rich. It will be worth your while,&rdquo;
+he repeated.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;He will be heavy to carry. Shall we be
+able to do it alone?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<em lang="it" xml:lang="it">Via!</em>&rdquo; cried the little man. &ldquo;I am very
+strong. Go now and come back soon.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>When the other had left the room he crouched
+down again on the floor at Jean&rsquo;s feet.
+&ldquo;Signorino! Signorino! Speak to me!
+Look at me!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>But there was no voice now, nor any that
+answered.</p>
+
+<p class="padtop">For a long while, it seemed, Jean was a spent
+swimmer, struggling to reach a distant shore.
+The cruel cross-currents drew him, great
+waves buffeted him, and the worst of it was
+they were hot. All the sea was bubbling and
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>
+boiling about him, and the sound in his ears
+was like the roar of steam. There were
+creatures in the water, too; octopi, such as
+he had seen caught in nets by the Venetian
+fishermen and flung on the yellow sands of
+the Lido. He saw their tentacles flickering
+in the green curled edges of each wave that
+threatened to beat him down into the depths.</p>
+
+<p>Vincenzo kept them off. He was always
+there, sitting by the door, and when he was
+called he came running to his master&rsquo;s bedside.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Where is she? Don&rsquo;t let her be drowned!
+Don&rsquo;t let the octopi get her! Vincenzo!
+Vincenzo!&rdquo; he cried, and the good fellow tried
+to reassure him.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Sia benedetto</i>, signorino! They shall not
+have her. I will cut them in pieces with my
+knife.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;What is the matter? I am quite well.
+Is it only the tyre? There is Orvieto, and
+the sun just risen. Is it still raining?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;No, signorino. The sun shines and it
+has not rained for days. It will soon be
+May.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>Very slowly the tide of feverish dreams
+ebbed, and Jean became aware of the iris
+pattern on the curtains of the bed; of the ray
+of sunlight that danced every morning on the
+ceiling and passed away; of the old woman
+who gave him his medicine. She was kind,
+and he liked to see her sitting sewing by
+<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span>
+lamplight, and to watch her distorted shadow
+looming gigantic in an angle of the wall.
+Hilaire was there too, but sometimes he was
+called away, and then Jean would hear his
+uneven step going to and fro across an uncarpeted
+floor, and the sound of hushed voices
+in the next room.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Hilaire, is&mdash;is it all right?&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Yes, do not be afraid. Get well,&rdquo; the
+elder man answered, but Jean still lay with his
+face turned to the wall. He was afraid. The
+longing to see Olive, to hold her once more
+in his arms, burned within him. He moved
+restlessly and laid his clenched hands together
+on the half-healed wound in his side.</p>
+
+<p>One night he slept soundly, dreamlessly, as a
+child sleeps, and woke at dawn. He raised
+himself on his elbow in the bed and looked
+about him, and Vincenzo came to him at once
+and asked him what he wanted.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Go out,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and leave me alone
+for a while.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The green painted window-shutter was unfastened,
+and it swung open in the little wind
+that had sprung up. Jean saw the morning
+star shining, and the widening rift of pale gold
+in the grey sky above the hills. He heard
+the stirring of awakened life. Birds fluttered
+in the laurels. A boy was singing as he went
+to his work among the vines by the lake
+side:</p>
+
+<div class="poem">
+<div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">&ldquo;<i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Ho da dirti tante cose.</i>&rdquo;<br /></span>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span>
+It seemed to Jean that he too had many
+things to say to the woman he loved. He
+called to her faintly, in a weak, hoarse voice:
+&ldquo;Olive!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>After a while he heard her answering him
+from the next room.</p>
+
+<p>&ldquo;Jean! Oh, Jean!&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>He lay still, smiling.</p>
+
+
+<p class="center smlfont padtop padbase">EDINBURGH<br />
+COLSTON AND CO. LIMITED<br />
+PRINTERS</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="center xlrgfont">THE BLUE LAGOON</p>
+
+<p class="center lrgfont">By <b>H. DE VERE STACPOOLE</b>,</p>
+
+<p class="center lrgfont">Author of &ldquo;The Crimson Azaleas,&rdquo; etc. 6s.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>The <i>Times</i> says: &ldquo;Picturesque and original
+... full of air and light and motion.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The <i>Daily Telegraph</i> says: &ldquo;A hauntingly
+beautiful story.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The <i>Globe</i> says: &ldquo;Weirdly imaginative,
+remote, and fateful.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The <i>Evening Standard</i> says: &ldquo;A masterpiece....
+It has the gift of the most vivid
+description that makes a scene live before
+your eyes.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The <i>Sunday Times</i> says: &ldquo;A very lovely
+and fascinating tale, by the side of which
+&lsquo;Paul and Virginia&rsquo; seems tame indeed.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The <i>Morning Leader</i> says: &ldquo;It is a true
+romance, with an atmosphere of true romance
+which few but the greatest writers achieve.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The <i>World</i> says: &ldquo;Original and fascinating.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The <i>Nottingham Guardian</i> says: &ldquo;A
+singularly powerful and brilliantly imagined
+story.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p>The <i>Daily Chronicle</i> says: &ldquo;Many able
+authors, an unaccountable number, have
+written about the South Sea Islands, but
+none that we know has written so charmingly
+as Mr. de Vere Stacpoole in &lsquo;The Blue
+Lagoon.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<p class="center">T. FISHER UNWIN, 1 ADELPHI TERRACE, LONDON</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="center">T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher,</p>
+
+<p class="center lrgfont">WORKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD</p>
+
+
+<p class="center smlpadt">I.</p>
+
+<p class="center xlrgfont">AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS</p>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Crown 8vo.</i>, <i>cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="smlfont">&ldquo;Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (<i>vide</i> first part of notice),
+&lsquo;An Outcast of the Islands&rsquo; is perhaps the finest piece of fiction that has been
+published this year, as &lsquo;Almayer&rsquo;s Folly&rsquo; was one of the finest that was published
+in 1895.... Surely this is real romance&mdash;the romance that is real.
+Space forbids anything but the merest recapitulation of the other living
+realities of Mr. Conrad&rsquo;s invention&mdash;of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer,
+the one-eyed Babalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla&mdash;all novel, all
+authentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad&rsquo;s quality. He
+imagines his scenes and their sequence like a master; he knows his individualities
+and their hearts; he has a new and wonderful field in this East Indian
+Novel of his.... Greatness is deliberately written; the present writer has
+read and re-read his two books, and after putting this review aside for some
+days to consider the discretion of it, the word still stands.&rdquo;&mdash;<i>Saturday Review</i></p>
+</div>
+
+
+<p class="center smlpadt">II.</p>
+
+<p class="center xlrgfont">ALMAYER&rsquo;S FOLLY</p>
+
+<p class="center"><i>Second Edition.</i> <i>Crown 8vo.</i>, <i>cloth</i>, <b>6s.</b></p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="center">&ldquo;This startling, unique, splendid book.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p class="sig">Mr. <span class="smcap">T. P. O&rsquo;Connor</span>, M.P.</p>
+</div>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="smlfont">&ldquo;This is a decidedly powerful story of an uncommon type, and breaks fresh
+ground in fiction.... All the leading characters in the book&mdash;Almayer, his
+wife, his daughter, and Dain, the daughter&rsquo;s native lover&mdash;are well drawn, and
+the parting between father and daughter has a pathetic naturalness about it,
+unspoiled by straining after effect. There are, too, some admirably graphic
+passages in the book. The approach of a monsoon is most effectively
+described.... The name of Mr. Joseph Conrad is new to us, but it appears
+to us as if he might become the Kipling of the Malay Archipelago.&rdquo;&mdash;<i>Spectator</i></p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+
+<p class="center"><span class="xlrgfont">THE BEETLE.</span> <span class="lrgfont">A MYSTERY</span></p>
+
+<p class="center">By <span class="lrgfont"><b>RICHARD MARSH</b></span>. Illustrated.</p>
+
+<p class="center">Eleventh Edition. 6s.</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="smlfont">The <i>Daily Graphic</i> says: &ldquo;&lsquo;The Beetle&rsquo;
+is the kind of book which you put down
+only for the purpose of turning up the gas
+and making sure that no person or thing
+is standing behind your chair, and it is a
+book which no one will put down until
+finished except for the reason above described.&rdquo;</p>
+
+<p class="smlfont">The <i>Speaker</i> says: &ldquo;A story of the most
+terrific kind is duly recorded in this extremely
+powerful book. The skill with which
+its fantastic horrors are presented to us is
+undeniable.&rdquo;</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<p class="center smlpadt padbase">T. FISHER UNWIN, 1 ADELPHI TERRACE, LONDON</p>
+
+
+
+<div class="bbox">
+<p><b>Transcriber's Note</b></p>
+
+<p>Text in languages other than English is preserved as printed.</p>
+
+<p>Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.</p>
+
+<p>The following amendments have been made:</p>
+
+<div class="amends">
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_164">164</a>&mdash;Jocopo amended to Jacopo&mdash;"... one of the old houses in the
+Borgo San Jacopo, ..."</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_197">197</a>&mdash;mysogynists amended to misogynists&mdash;"Olive laughed. &ldquo;Commend me
+to misogynists henceforth.&rdquo;"</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_216">216</a>&mdash;newsvenders amended to newsvendors&mdash;"... and the narrow streets
+were echoing now to the hoarse cries of the newsvendors ..."</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_228">228</a>&mdash;Babbuino amended to Babuino&mdash;"They went by way of the Via Babuino
+across the Piazza di Spagna, ..."</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_293">293</a>&mdash;anyrate amended to any rate&mdash;"... I am sure he never would, or,
+at any rate, he would ..."</p>
+
+<p>Page <a href="#Page_297">297</a>&mdash;it's amended to its&mdash;"... its gnawing, tearing, animal ferocity
+was appalling."</p>
+
+<p>Second advert page&mdash;decidely amended to decidedly&mdash;"This is a decidedly
+powerful story ..."</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive in Italy, by Moray Dalton
+
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+</body>
+</html>
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive in Italy, by Moray Dalton
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Olive in Italy
+
+Author: Moray Dalton
+
+Release Date: July 25, 2009 [EBook #29512]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVE IN ITALY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Mark C. Orton, Sam W. and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+      OLIVE ...
+      IN ITALY
+
+
+   BY MORAY DALTON
+
+
+   [Illustration]
+
+
+       London
+   T. FISHER UNWIN
+       MCMIX
+
+
+
+
+[_All Rights Reserved_]
+
+
+
+
+    "For in the hand of the Lord there is a cup, and the
+    wine is red; it is full mixed, and He poureth out of the
+    same. As for the dregs thereof: all the ungodly of the
+    earth shall drink them...."
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+    BOOK I.                 PAGE
+
+      SIENA                   17
+
+
+    BOOK II.
+
+      FLORENCE               115
+
+
+    BOOK III.
+
+      ROME                   213
+
+
+
+
+OLIVE IN ITALY
+
+
+
+
+BOOK I.--SIENA
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+"I believe that Olive Agar is going to tell you that she can't pay her
+bill," said the landlady's daughter as she set the breakfast tray down
+on the kitchen table.
+
+"Good gracious, Gwen, how you do startle one! Why?"
+
+"She began again about the toast, and I told her straight that you
+always set yourself against any unnecessary cooking. Meat and
+vegetables must be done, I said, but those who can't relish bread as
+it comes from the baker's, and plain boiled potatoes, can go without,
+I said. Then she says, of course I must do as my mother tells me, and
+would I ask you to step up and see her presently."
+
+"Perhaps you were a bit too sharp with her."
+
+The girl sniffed resentfully. "Good riddance if she goes," she called
+after her mother.
+
+Mrs Simons knocked perfunctorily at the dining-room door.
+
+A young voice bade her come in. "I wanted to tell you that I heard
+from my cousins in Italy this morning. I am going to stay with them
+for a little, so I shall be leaving you at the end of the week."
+
+The landlady's cold stare was disconcerting. There was a distinct note
+of disapproval in her voice as she answered, "I do not know much about
+Italy." She seemed to think it not quite a seemly subject, yet she
+pursued it. "I should have thought it was better for a young lady
+without parents or friends to find some occupation in her own
+country."
+
+Olive smiled. "Ah, but I hate boiled potatoes, and I think I shall
+love Italy and Italian cooking. You remember the Athenians who were
+always seeking some new thing? They had a good time, Mrs Simons."
+
+"I hope you may not live to wish those words unsaid, miss," the woman
+answered primly. "You have as good as sold your birthright, as Esau
+did, in that speech."
+
+"He was much nicer than Jacob."
+
+"Oh, miss, how can you! But, after all, I suppose you are not
+altogether one of us since you have foreign cousins. What's bred in
+the bone comes out in the flesh they say."
+
+"I am quite English, if that is what you mean. My aunt married an
+Italian."
+
+Mrs Simons's eyes had wandered from the girl's face to the heavy
+chandelier tied up in yellow muslin, and thence, by way of "Bubbles,"
+framed in tarnished gilt, to the door. "Ah, well, I shall take your
+notice," she said finally.
+
+She went down again into the kitchen. "I never know where to have
+her," she complained. "There's something queer and foreign about her
+for all she says. What's bred in the bone! I said that to her face,
+and I repeat it to you, Gwendolen."
+
+Mrs Simons might have added that adventures are to the adventurous.
+Olive's father was Jack Agar, of the Agars of Lyme, and he married his
+cousin. If Mrs Simons had known all that must be implied in this
+statement she might have held forth at some length on the subject of
+heredity, and have traced the girl's dislike of boiled potatoes to her
+great-great-uncle's friendship with Lord Byron, and her longing for
+sunshine to a still more remote ancestress, lady-in-waiting to a
+princess at the court of Le Roi Soleil.
+
+Adventures to the adventurous! The Agars were always aware of the
+magnificent possibilities of life and love, and inclined to ignore the
+unpleasant actualities of existence and the married state; hence some
+remarkable histories, and, in the end, ruin. Olive was the last of the
+old name. Jack Agar had died at thirty, leaving his wife and child
+totally unprovided for but for the little annuity that had sufficed
+for dress in the far-off salad days, and that now must be made to
+maintain them. Olive was sent to a cheap boarding-school, where she
+proved herself a fool at arithmetic; history, very good; conduct,
+fair; according to her reports. She was not happy there. She hated
+muddy walks and ink-stained desks and plain dumpling, and all these
+things seemed to be an essential part of life at Miss Blake's.
+
+She left at eighteen, and thereafter she and her mother lived together
+in lodgings at various seaside resorts within their means, practising
+a strict economy, improving their minds at the free library, doing
+their own dressmaking, and keeping body and soul together on potted
+meats, cocoa and patent cereals. Mary Agar rebelled sometimes in
+secret, regretting the lack of "opportunities," _i.e._, of possible
+husbands. She would have been glad to see her daughter settled. The
+Agars never used commonsense in affairs of the heart. Her own marriage
+had been very foolish from a worldly point of view, and her sister
+Alice had run away with her music-master.
+
+"In those days girls had a governess at home and finished with
+masters, and young Signor Menotti came twice a week to our house in
+Russell Square to teach Alice the guitar and mandoline. We shared
+singing and French lessons, but she had him to herself. He was very
+good-looking, dark, and rather haggard, and just shabby enough to make
+one sorry for him. When Alice said she would marry him mamma was
+furious, but she was just of age, and she had a little money of her
+own, an annuity as I have, and she went her own way. They were
+married at a registry office, I think, and soon afterwards they went
+to his home in Italy. Mamma never forgave, but Alice and I used to
+write to each other, and her eldest child was called after me. I don't
+know how it turned out. She never said she was unhappy, but she died
+after eight years, leaving her three little girls to be brought up by
+their father's sister."
+
+Olive knew little more than this of her aunt. Further questioning
+elicited the fact that Signor Menotti's name was Ernesto.
+
+"The girls are your cousins, Olive dear, and you have no other
+relations. I should like to see them."
+
+"So should I."
+
+Olive knew all about the annuity, but she had not realised until her
+mother died quite suddenly, of heart failure after influenza, what it
+means to have no money at all. She was dazed with grief at first, and
+Mrs Simons was as kind as could be expected and did not thrust the
+weekly bill upon her on the morning after the funeral, though it was
+due on that day. But lodgers are not supposed to give much trouble,
+and though death is not quite so heinous as infectious disease or ink
+spilt on the carpet it is still distinctly not a thing to be
+encouraged by too great a display of sympathy, and Olive was soon made
+to understand that it behoved her to seek some means of livelihood,
+some way out into the world.
+
+No proverb is too hackneyed to be comforting at times, and the girl
+reminded herself that blood is thicker than water as she looked among
+her mother's papers for the Menotti address. They were her cousins,
+birds of a feather. She wrote them a queer, shy, charming letter in
+strange Italian, laboriously learnt out of a grammar, and then--since
+some days must elapse before she could get any answer--she
+conscientiously studied the advertisement columns of the papers. She
+might be a nursery governess if only she could be sure of herself at
+long division, or--horrid alternative--a useful help. Mrs Simons
+suggested a shop.
+
+"You have a nice appearance, miss. Perhaps you would do as one of the
+young ladies in the drapery department, beginning with the tapes and
+thread and ribbon counter, you know, and working your way up to the
+showroom."
+
+But Olive altogether declined to be a young lady.
+
+She waited anxiously for her cousins' letter, and it meant so much to
+her that when it came she was half afraid to open it.
+
+It was grotesquely addressed to the
+
+    Genteel Miss Agar Olive,
+            Marsden Street, 159,
+                Brighton,
+              Provincia di Sussex,
+                    Inghilterra.
+
+The post-mark was Siena. It was stamped on the flap, which was also
+decorated with a blue bird carrying a rose in its beak, and was rather
+strongly scented.
+
+    "DEAR COUSIN,--We were so pleased and interested to hear
+    from you, though we greatly regret to have the news of
+    our aunt's death. Our father's sister lives with us
+    since we are orphans. She is a widow and has no children
+    of her own. If you can pay us fifteen lire a week we
+    shall be satisfied, and we will try to get you pupils
+    for English. Kindly let us know the date and hour of
+    your arrival.--Believe us, yours devotedly,
+
+                    "MARIA, GEMMA and CARMELA."
+
+Olive read it carefully twice over, and then sat down at the table and
+began to scribble on the back of the envelope. She convinced herself
+that three times fifteen was forty-five, and that so many lire
+amounted to not quite two pounds. Then there was the fare out to be
+reckoned. Finally, she decided that she would be able to get out to
+Italy and to live there for three weeks before she need call herself
+penniless.
+
+She went to the window and stood for a while looking out. The houses
+opposite and all down the road were exactly alike, all featureless and
+grey, roofed with slate, three-storied, with basement kitchens. Nearly
+every one of them had "Apartments" in gilt letters on the fanlight
+over the front door. It was raining. The pavements were wet and there
+was mud on the roadway. The woman who lived in the corner house was
+spring-cleaning. Olive saw her helping the servant to take down the
+curtains in the front room. Dust and tea-leaves and last year's
+cobwebs. It occurred to her that spring would bring a recurrence of
+these things only if she became a useful help, as she must if she
+stayed in England and earned her living as best she could--only these
+and nothing more. The idea was horrible and she shuddered at it. "I
+shall go," she said aloud. "I shall go."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+Olive, advised by a clerk in Cook's office, had taken a through ticket
+to Siena, third class to Dover, first on the boat, second in France
+and Italy. She got to Victoria in good time, had her luggage labelled,
+secured a corner seat, and, having twenty minutes to spare, strolled
+round the bookstall, eyeing the illustrated weeklies and the cheap
+reprints. The blue and gold of a shilling edition of Keats lay ready
+to her hand and she picked it up and opened it.
+
+The girl, true lover of all beauty, flushed with pleasure at the dear,
+familiar word music, the sound of Arcadian pipes heard faintly for a
+moment above the harsh roar of London. For her the dead poet's voice
+rose clearly through the clamour of the living; it was like the silver
+wailing of a violin in a blaring discord of brass instruments.
+
+She laid down the book reluctantly, and turning, met the eager eyes of
+the man who stood beside her. He had just bought an armful of current
+literature, and his business at the bookstall was evidently done, yet
+he lingered for an appreciable instant. He, too, was a lover of
+beauty, and in his heart he was saying, "Oh, English rose!"
+
+He did not look English himself. He wore his black hair rather longer
+than is usual in this country, and there was a curiously vivid look, a
+suggestion of fire about him, which is conspicuously lacking in the
+average Briton, whose ambition it is to look as cool as possible. His
+face was thin and his eyes were deep set, like those of Julius
+Caesar--in fact, the girl was strongly reminded of the emperor's bust
+in the British Museum. He looked about thirty-five, but might have
+been older.
+
+All this Olive saw in the brief instant during which they stood there
+together and aware of each other. When he turned away she bought some
+magazines, without any great regard for their interest or suitability,
+and went to take her place in the third-class compartment she had
+selected.
+
+He would travel first, of course. She watched his leisurely progress
+along the platform, and noted that he was taller than any of the other
+men there, and better-looking. His thin, clean-shaven face compelled
+attention; she saw some women looking at him, and was pleased to
+observe that he did not even glance at them. Then people came hurrying
+up to the door of her compartment to say good-bye to some of her
+fellow-travellers, and she lost sight of him.
+
+The train started and passed through the arid wilderness of backyards
+that lies between each one of the London termini and the clean green
+country.
+
+Olive fluttered the pages of her magazine, but she felt disinclined
+to read. She was pretty; her brown hair framed a rose-tinted face, her
+smile was charming, her blue eyes were gay and honest and kind. Men
+often looked at her, and it cannot be denied that the swift
+appraisement of masculine eyes, the momentary homage of a glance that
+said "you are fair," meant something to her. Such tributes to her
+beauty were minor joys, to be classed with the pleasure to be derived
+from _marrons glaces_ or the scent of violets, but the remembrance of
+them did not often make her dream by day or bring a flush to her
+cheeks.
+
+She roused herself presently and began to look out of the window with
+the remorseful feeling of one who has been neglecting an old friend
+for an acquaintance. After all, this was England, where she was born
+and where her mother had died, and she was leaving it perhaps for
+ever. She tried to fix the varying aspects of the spring in her mind
+for future reference; the tender green of the young larches in the
+plantation, the pale gold of the primroses, and the flowering gorse
+close to the line, the square grey towers of the village churches,
+even the cold, pinched faces of the people waiting on the platforms of
+the little stations. Italy would be otherwise, and she might never see
+these familiar things again.
+
+When the train rushed out on to the pier at Dover she dared not look
+back at the white cliffs, but kept her eyes resolutely seaward. The
+wind was high, and she heard that the crossing would be rough. Caesar
+was close behind her, and she caught a glimpse of him going aft as she
+made her way to the ladies' cabin.
+
+She lay down on one of the red velvet divans in the stuffy saloon, and
+closed her eyes as she had been advised to do, and in ten minutes her
+misery was complete.
+
+"If you are going to be ill nothing will stop you," observed the
+sympathetic stewardess. "It is like Monte Carlo. Most people have a
+system, and sometimes they win, but they are bound to lose in the end.
+Champagne, munching biscuits, patent medicines, lying down as you are
+now. It is all vanity and vexation of spirit, my dear."
+
+Olive joined feebly in her laugh. "I feel better now. Are we nearly
+there?"
+
+"Just coming into harbour."
+
+"Thank heaven!"
+
+When Olive crawled up on deck her one idea, after her luggage, was to
+avoid anyone who had seemed to admire her. She could not bear that the
+man should see her green face, and she was grateful to him for keeping
+his distance in the crush to get off the boat, and for disappearing
+altogether in the station. A porter in a blue linen blouse piloted her
+to the waiting train, and she climbed into the compartment labelled
+"Turin," and settled herself in a window seat.
+
+The country between Calais and Paris can only be described as flat,
+stale and unprofitable by a beauty lover panting for the light and
+glow and colour of the South, and Olive soon got a book out of her bag
+and began to read. Her only fellow-passenger, a middle-aged English
+lady with an indefinite face, spoke to her presently. "You are reading
+a French novel?"
+
+"No, it is in Italian. _La Citta Morta_, by Gabriele D'Annunzio. I
+want to rub up my few words of the language."
+
+"Is he not a very terrible writer?"
+
+Olive was so tired of the disapproving note. "He writes very well, and
+his descriptions are gorgeous. Of course he is horrid sometimes, but
+one can skip those parts."
+
+"Do you?"
+
+Olive smiled. "No, I do not," she said frankly, "but I don't enjoy
+them. They make me tired of life."
+
+"Is not that rather a pity?"
+
+"Perhaps; but you have to sift dirt to find diamonds, don't you? And
+this man says things that are worth tiaras sometimes."
+
+"Surely there must be Italian authors who write books suitable for
+young people in a pretty style?"
+
+"A pretty style? No doubt. But I don't read them."
+
+The older woman sighed, and then smiled quite pleasantly. "I suppose
+you are clever. One of my nieces is, and they find her rather a
+handful. Will you try one of my sandwiches?"
+
+Olive produced her biscuits and bananas, and they munched together in
+amity. After all, an aunt might be worse than stupid, and this one was
+quite good-natured, and so kind that her taste in literature might be
+excused. There were affectionate farewells at the Paris station, where
+she got out with all her accumulation of bags and bundles.
+
+The train rushed on through the woods of Fontainebleau and across wide
+plains intersected by poplar-fringed canals. As the evening mists rose
+lights began to twinkle in cottage windows, and in the villages the
+church bells were ringing the prayer to the Virgin. Olive had laid
+aside her book some time since, and now, wearying of the grey twilit
+world, she fell asleep.
+
+Jean Avenel, too, had watched the waning of the day from his place in
+a smoking first for a while, before he got up and began to prowl
+restlessly about the corridors. "She will be so tired if she does not
+eat," he said to himself. "They ought not to let a child like that
+travel alone. I wonder--" He walked down the corridor again, but this
+time he looked into each compartment. He saw three Englishmen and an
+American playing whist, Germans eating, and French people sleeping,
+and at last he came upon his rose. A small man, mean-featured and
+scrubby-haired, was seated opposite to her, and his shining eyes were
+fixed upon her face. She had taken off her hat and was holding it on
+her lap, and Jean saw that she was clutching at it nervously, and
+that she was pale. He understood that it was probably her first
+experience of the Italian stare, deliberate, merciless, and
+indefinitely prolonged. She flushed as he came forward, and her eyes
+were eloquent as they met his. He sat down beside her.
+
+"Please forgive me," he said quietly, "but I can see this man is
+annoying you. Shall I glare him out of the place? I can."
+
+"Oh, please do," she answered. "He has frightened me so. He was
+talking before you came."
+
+The culprit already looked disconcerted and rather foolish, and now,
+as Jean leant forward and seemed about to speak to him, he began to be
+frightened. He fidgeted, thrusting his hands in his pockets, looking
+out of the window, humming a tune. His ears grew red. He tried to meet
+the other man's level gaze and failed. He got up rather hurriedly. The
+brown eyes watched him slinking out before they allowed themselves a
+second sight of the rose.
+
+"Thank you so much," said Olive. "I feel as if you had killed a spider
+for me, or an earwig. He was more like an earwig. He must have come in
+here while I was asleep."
+
+"A deported waiter going back to his native Naples, I imagine," Jean
+said. "They ought not to have let you travel alone."
+
+She smiled. "I am a law unto myself."
+
+"That is a pity. Will you think me very impertinent if I confess that
+I have been watching over you--at a respectful distance--ever since we
+left Victoria? I do not approve of children wandering--"
+
+She tilted her pretty chin at him. "Children! So you have made
+yourself into a sort of G.F.S. for me?"
+
+"You know," he said gravely, "we have a mutual friend." He drew a blue
+and gold volume from an inner pocket.
+
+Olive flushed scarlet, but she only said, "Oh, Keats!"
+
+She looked at his hands as they turned the pages; they were clever and
+kind, she thought, and she wondered if he was an artist or a doctor.
+Those fingers might set a butterfly's wing, and yet they seemed very
+strong. She did not know she had sighed until he said, "Am I boring
+you?"
+
+"Oh, no," she answered eagerly. "Please don't go yet unless you want
+to. But tell me why you bought that book?"
+
+"If you could have seen yourself as I saw you, you would understand,"
+he answered. "I once saw a woman on my brother's estate pick up a
+piece of gold on the road. She had never had so much money without
+earning it in her life before, I suppose. At any rate she kissed it,
+and her face was radiant. She was old and ugly and worn by her long
+days of toil in the fields, and you-- Well, in spite of the
+differences you reminded me of her, and I am curious to know which
+poem of Keats brought that swift, rapt light of joy."
+
+"It was 'White hawthorn and the pastoral eglantine'--"
+
+Jean found the place and marked the passage before returning the book
+to his pocket. "Now," he said, "you will come with me and have some
+dinner."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+Many women are shepherded through all life's journeyings by their
+men--fathers, brothers, husbands--who look out their trains for them,
+put them in the care of guards, and shield them from all contact with
+sulky porters and extortionate cabmen. Olive, who had always to take
+her own ticket and fight her own and her mother's battles, now tasted
+the joys of irresponsibility with Avenel. He compounded with Customs
+officials, who bowed low before him, he took part in the midnight
+scramble for pillows at Modane, emerging from the crowd in triumph
+with no less than three of the coveted aids to repose under his arm,
+and he saw Olive comfortably settled in another compartment with two
+motherly German women, and there left her.
+
+At Turin he secured places in the _diretto_ to Florence, and sent his
+man to the buffet for coffee and rolls, and the two broke their fast
+together.
+
+"Italy and the joy of life," Olive said lightly, as she lifted her
+cup, and he looked at her with melancholy brown eyes that yet held the
+ghost of a smile.
+
+"The passing hour," he answered; adding prosaically, "This is good
+coffee."
+
+Referring to the grey silvery trees whose name she bore he assured
+her that he did not think she resembled them. "They are old and you
+seem eternally young. You should have been called Primavera."
+
+She laughed. "Ah, if you had been my godfather--"
+
+"I should not have cared to have held you in my arms when you were a
+bald-headed baby," he answered with perfect gravity.
+
+Apparently he always said what he thought, but his frankness was
+disconcerting, and Olive changed the subject.
+
+"Is Siena beautiful?"
+
+"It is a gem of the Renaissance, and you will love it as I do, I know,
+but I wish you could have seen Florence first. My brother has a villa
+at Settignano and I am going there now. The fruit trees in the orchard
+will be all white with blossom. You remember Romeo's April oath: 'By
+yonder moon that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops--'"
+
+They lunched in the station restaurant at Genoa, and there he bought
+the girl a basket of fruit. "A poor substitute for the tea you will be
+wanting presently," he explained. "You have no tea-basket with you?
+You will want one if you are going to live with Italians."
+
+"I never thought of it."
+
+"May I send you one?" he asked eagerly. "Do let me."
+
+Olive flushed with pleasure. No one had been so kind to her since her
+mother died. Evidently he liked her--oh! he liked her very much. She
+suddenly realised how much she would miss him when they parted at
+Florence and she had to go on alone. It had been so good to be with
+someone stronger than herself who would take care of her. He had
+seemed happy too, and she thought he looked younger now than he did
+when she first saw him standing by the bookstall at Victoria station.
+
+"It is very good of you," she said. "I should like it. Thank you. I--I
+shall be sorry to say good-bye."
+
+He met her wistful eyes gravely. "I should like you to know that I
+shall never forget this day," he said. "I shall never cease to be
+grateful to you for being so--for being what you are. My wife is
+different."
+
+"Your wife--"
+
+"I don't live with her."
+
+He took a card from his case presently and scribbled an address on it.
+"I dare not hope that I shall ever hear from you again, but that is my
+name, and letters will always be forwarded to me from my brother's
+place. If ever I could do anything--"
+
+She faltered some word of thanks in an uncertain voice. She felt as if
+something had come upon her for which she was unprepared, some shadow
+of the world's pain, some flame of its fires that flickered at her
+heart for a moment and was gone. She was suddenly afraid, not of the
+brown eyes that were fixed so hungrily upon her face, but of herself.
+She could hear the beating of her own heart. The pity of it--the pity
+of it! He was so nice. Why could not they be friends--
+
+The night had fallen long since and they were nearing Florence.
+
+"Don't forget to change at Empoli," he said. "I will send my man on as
+far as that to look after you. Will you let me kiss you?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+He came over and sat on the seat by her side. "Don't be afraid. I
+won't hurt you," he said gently, and then, seeing her pale, he drew
+back. "No, I won't. It would not be fair. Oh, I beg your pardon! It
+will be enough for me to remember how good you were."
+
+The train passed into the lighted station, and he stood up and took
+his hat and coat from the rack before he turned to her once more.
+
+"Good-bye."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+"Has anyone seen our cousin?" asked Gemma as she helped herself to
+_spaghetti_.
+
+Her aunt shrugged her fat shoulders. "No! The _donna di servizio_ is
+mistress here, and she has ordained that the cousin shall not be
+disturbed. She has even locked the door, and she carries the key in
+her pocket."
+
+"It is true," old Carolina said placidly. She was accustomed to join
+in the conversation at table when she chose, and Italian servants are
+allowed great freedom of speech. "You were all in your beds when
+Giovanni Scampo drove her here in his cab this morning or you would
+have seen her then. The poor child is half dead with fatigue. Let her
+sleep, I say. There are veal cutlets to come, Signorina Maria; will
+you have more _spaghetti_?"
+
+"A little more."
+
+The old woman shook her head. "You eat too much."
+
+The Menotti lived in a small stuffy flat on the third floor of 25,
+Piazza Tolomei. It had the one advantage of being central, but was
+otherwise extremely inconvenient. The kitchen was hot and airless, and
+the servant had to sleep in a dark cupboard adjoining, in an
+atmosphere compounded of the scent of cheese, black beetles and old
+boots. There were four bedrooms besides, all opening on to the
+dining-room; and a tiny drawing-room, seldom used and never dusted,
+was filled to overflowing with gilt furniture and decorative fantasies
+in wool work.
+
+The Menotti did not entertain. They met their friends at church, or at
+the theatre, or in the Lizza gardens, where they walked every evening
+in the summer. No man had ever seen them other than well dressed, but
+in the house they wore loose white cotton jackets and old skirts. They
+were _en deshabille_ now, though their heads were elaborately dressed
+and their faces powdered, and Maria's waist was considerably larger
+than it appeared to be when she was socially "visible."
+
+"I must breathe sometimes," she said.
+
+The three girls were inclined to stoutness, but Gemma drank vinegar
+and ate sparingly, and so had succeeded in keeping herself slim
+hitherto, though she was only three years younger than Maria, who was
+twenty-nine and looked forty.
+
+Carmela was podgy, but she might lace or not just as she pleased. No
+one would look at her in any case since her kind, good-humoured, silly
+face was marked with smallpox.
+
+Gemma was the pride of her aunt and the hope of the family. The girls
+were poor, and it is hard for such to find husbands, but she had
+recently become engaged to a young lawyer from Lucca, who had been
+staying with friends in Siena when he saw and fell in love with the
+girl whom the students at the University named the "Odalisque."
+
+Hers was the strange, boding loveliness of a pale orchid. She had no
+colour, but her curved lips were faintly pink, as were the palms of
+her soft, idle hands. "I shall be glad when she is married," her aunt
+said often. "It is very well for Maria or Carmela to go through the
+streets alone, but Gemma is otherwise, and I cannot be always running
+after her. Then her temper ... _Dio mio!_"
+
+"Perhaps it is the vinegar," suggested Carolina rather spitefully.
+
+"No. She wants a husband."
+
+When the dinner was over Signora Carosi went to her room to lie down,
+and her two elder nieces followed her example, but Carmela passed into
+the kitchen with Carolina.
+
+"You will let me see the cousin," she said, wheedling. "Gemma thinks
+she will be ugly, with great teeth and a red face like the
+Englishwomen in the Asino, but I do not believe it."
+
+"If the signorina is hoping for a miracle of plainness she will be
+unpleasantly surprised," said the old woman, and her shrivelled face
+was as mischievous as a monkey's as she drew the key of Olive's room
+from her pocket. "I am going to take her some soup now, and you shall
+come with me."
+
+It is quite impossible to be retiring, or even modest, in the
+mid-Victorian sense, in flats. A bedroom cannot remain an inviolate
+sanctuary when it affords the only means of access to the bathroom or
+is a short cut to the kitchen. Olive had had some experience of
+suburban flats during holidays spent with school friends, and had
+suffered the familiarity that breeds weariness in such close quarters.
+As she woke now she was unpleasantly aware of strangers in the room.
+
+"Only a lover or a nurse may look at a woman while she sleeps without
+offence," she said drowsily. "It is an unpardonable liberty in all
+other classes of the population. Are you swains, or sisters of mercy?"
+She opened her eyes and met Carmela's puzzled stare with laughter. "I
+was saying that when one is ill or in love one can endure many
+things," she explained in halting Italian.
+
+"Ah," Carmela said uncomprehendingly, "I am never ill, _grazia a Dio_,
+but when Maria has an indigestion she is cross, and when Gemma is in
+love her temper is dreadful. Perhaps, being a foreigner, you are
+different. Are you tired?"
+
+"Yes, I am, rather, but go on talking to me. I am not sleepy."
+
+Carmela, nothing loth, drew a chair to the bedside. "You need not get
+up yet," she said comfortably. "We always lie down after dinner until
+five, and later we go for a walk. You will see the Via Cavour full of
+people in the evening, officers and students, and mothers with
+daughters to be married, all walking up and down and looking at each
+other. Orazio Lucis first saw Gemma like that, and he followed us
+home, and then found out who we were and asked questions about us.
+Every day we saw him in the Piazza, smoking cigarettes, and waiting
+for us to go out that he might follow us, and Gemma would give him one
+look, and then cast down her eyes ... so!" Carmela caricatured her
+sister's affectation of unconsciousness very successfully, and looked
+to Olive and Carolina for applause.
+
+The servant grinned appreciation. "Yes, the signorina is very
+_civetta_. I, also, have seen her simpering when the _avvocato_ has
+been here, but she soon gets tired of him, and then her face is as God
+made it."
+
+Olive dressed herself leisurely when they had left her, and unpacked
+her clothes and her little store of books. Her cousins, coming to
+fetch her soon after six o'clock, found her ready to go out, but so
+absorbed in a guide-book of Siena that she did not hear Maria's knock
+at the door.
+
+She had resolved that she would apply art and archaeology as plasters
+to the wound life had given her already. She would stay her heart's
+hunger with moods and tenses, but not of the verb "_amare_." Learning
+and teaching, she might make her mind lord of her emotions.
+
+She came forward rather shyly to meet her cousins. The three together
+were somewhat overpowering, flounced and frilled alike, and highly
+scented. Maria and Carmela fat, pleasant and profuse; Gemma silent,
+with dark resentful eyes and scornful lips that never smiled at other
+women.
+
+"You will show me the best things?" Olive said eagerly when they had
+all kissed her. "I want to see the Duomo first, and then the Palazzo
+Vecchio--but that is only open in the mornings, is it? And this is the
+Piazza Tolomei, so the house where Pia lived must be quite near."
+
+Gemma stared, but made no attempt to answer, and Maria looked
+confused.
+
+"I am afraid you will find us all very stupid, _cara_," said Carmela,
+apologetically. "We only go to the Duomo to pray, and as to museums
+and picture-galleries-- And perhaps I had better tell you now, at
+once, that we do not want to learn English. We have got you several
+lessons through friends, but Maria and Carmela say they will not
+fatigue themselves over a foreign language, and I--"
+
+"Oh," began Olive, "I thought--"
+
+Gemma interrupted her. "A thousand thanks," she said rudely. "We are
+not school children; we read about Pia dei Tolomei years ago at the
+_Scuola Normale_, but we do not consider her an amusing subject of
+conversation now."
+
+The rose in Olive's cheeks deepened. "I shall soon learn to know your
+likes and dislikes," she said, "and to understand your manners."
+
+"I hope so," answered Gemma as she left the room. Maria hurried after
+her, but the younger sister caught at Olive's hand.
+
+"You must not listen to Gemma. Come, we will walk together. Let her go
+on; she cannot forgive your nose for being straight."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+A large parcel addressed to Miss Agar was brought to the house a few
+weeks later. Olive was out giving a lesson when it came, and Gemma
+turned it over, examining the post-mark and the writing.
+
+"Shall I open it and see what is inside? She would never know."
+
+Carmela was horrified. "How can you think of such a thing!"
+
+"Besides, it is sealed," added Maria.
+
+These two liked their cousin well enough, and when they wished to
+tease the Odalisque they called her "_carina_" and praised her fresh
+prettiness. It was always so easy to make Gemma angry, and lately she
+had been more capricious and difficult than ever. Her sisters were
+continually trying to excuse her.
+
+"She is so nervous," Maria said loyally, but her paraphrase availed
+nothing. Olive understood her cousin and disliked her extremely,
+though she accorded her a reluctant admiration.
+
+She came in now with her books--an English grammar and a volume of
+translations--under her arm, and seeing that Gemma was watching her,
+she took her parcel with a carefully expressionless phrase of thanks
+to Carmela, who was anxious to cut the string, and carried it into her
+room unopened. It was the tea-basket Jean Avenel had promised her. She
+read the enclosed note, however, before she looked at it.
+
+    "I am going to America and then to Russia. Do not quite
+    forget me. If ever you need anything write to my
+    brother, Hilaire Avenel, Villa Fiorelli, Settignano,
+    near Florence, and he will serve you for my sake as he
+    would for your own if he knew you. I think I have played
+    better since I have known you, my rose. One must suffer
+    much before one can express the divine sorrow of Chopin.
+    I said I would not write, but some promises are made to
+    be broken. Can you forgive me?
+
+                    "JEAN AVENEL."
+
+America and Russia ... the divine sorrow of Chopin ... I have played
+better.... He was a pianist then, and surely a great one. Olive
+remembered the slender brown hands that had seemed to her so supple
+and so strong. But the name of Avenel was strange to her, and she was
+sure she had never seen it on posters, or in the papers and magazines
+that chronicle the doings of musical celebrities.
+
+She took the tea-things out of the basket one by one and looked at
+them with pleasure. The sugar box and the caddy and the spoon were
+all of silver, and engraved with her initials, and the cup and saucer
+were painted with garlands of pale roses.
+
+Tears filled her eyes as she sat down at the little table in the
+window and began to write.
+
+    "You have sent me a tea equipage fit for an empress! It
+    is perfect, and I do not know how to thank you. Yes. I
+    forgive you for writing. Have I really helped you to
+    play? I am so glad. You say Chopin, so I suppose it is
+    the piano? I must tell you that I remember all the
+    stories you told me of Siena, and they add to the
+    interest of my days. I give English lessons, and am
+    making enough money to keep myself, but in the intervals
+    of grammar and '_I Promessi Sposi_' (no less than three
+    of my pupils are translating that interminable romance
+    into so-called English) I study the architecture of the
+    early Renaissance in the old narrow streets, and gaze
+    upon Byzantine Madonnas in the churches. The Duomo is an
+    archangel's dream, and I like to go there with my
+    cousins and steep my soul in its beauty while they say
+    their prayers and fan themselves. One of them is pretty
+    and she hates me; the other two are stout and kind and
+    empty-headed, and their aunt is nothing--a large, heavy
+    nothing--"
+
+Olive laid down her pen. "What will he think if I write him eight
+pages? That I want to begin a correspondence? I do, but he must not
+know it."
+
+She tore her letter up into small pieces and wrote two lines on a
+sheet of note-paper.
+
+    "Thank you very much for your kind present and for what
+    you say. Of course I forgive you ... and I shall not
+    forget.--Yours sincerely,            OLIVE AGAR."
+
+She went to the window and threw the torn scraps of the first letter
+out into the street, and then she sat down again and began to cry; not
+for long. Women who know how precious youth is understand that tears
+are an expensive luxury, and they are sparing of them accordingly.
+They suffer more in the stern repression of their emotions than do
+those who yield easily to grief, but they keep their eyelashes and
+their complexions.
+
+Olive bathed her eyes presently and smoked a cigarette to calm her
+nerves. She was going out that evening to dine with her favourite
+pupil and his mother, and she knew they would be distressed if she
+looked ill or sad.
+
+Aurelia de Sanctis had had troubles enough of her own. She had married
+a patriot, a man with a beautiful eager face and a body spent with
+disease, and a fever that never left him since the days when he lurked
+in the marshes of the Maremma, crouched in a tangle of wet reeds and
+rushes, and watching for the flash of steel in the sunshine.
+
+Austrian bayonets ... he raved of them in his dreams, and called upon
+the names of comrades who had rotted in prisons or died in exile. His
+young wife nursed him devotedly until he died, leaving her a widow at
+twenty-seven. She had a small pension from the Government, and she
+worked at dressmaking to eke it out.
+
+Her only child had grown up to be a hopeless invalid. He could not go
+to school, so he lay all day on the sofa by the window in the tiny
+sitting-room and helped his mother with her sewing. His poor little
+bony hands were very quick and dexterous.
+
+In the evenings he read everything he could get hold of, books and
+newspapers. The professors from the University, who came to see him
+and were kind to him for his father's sake, told each other that he
+was a genius and that his soul was eating up his frail body. They
+wondered, pitifully, what poor Signora Aurelia would do when--
+
+The mother was hopeful, however. "He takes such an interest in
+everything that I think he must have a strong vitality though he seems
+delicate," she said.
+
+He had expressed a wish to learn English, and when Signora Aurelia
+first heard of Olive she wrote asking her to come and see her. The De
+Sancti lived a little way outside the Porta Romana, on the edge of the
+hill and outside the town, and Maria advised her cousin not to go
+there.
+
+"It is so far out on a hot dusty road, and you will grow as thin and
+dry as an old hen's drumstick if you walk so much. And I know the
+signora is poor and will not be able to pay well."
+
+Olive went, nevertheless. Signora Aurelia herself opened the door to
+her and showed evident pleasure at seeing her. The poor woman had been
+beautiful, and now that she was worn by time and sorrow she still
+looked like a goddess, exiled to earth, and altogether shabby--a deity
+in reduced circumstances--but none the less divinely fair and kind.
+Her great love for her child had so moulded her that she seemed the
+very incarnation of motherhood. So might Ceres have appeared as she
+wandered forlornly in search of her lost Persephone, gentle, weary,
+her fineness a little blunted by her woes.
+
+"Are you the English signorina? Come in! My son will be so pleased,"
+she said as she led the girl into the room where Astorre was working
+at embroidery.
+
+Olive saw a boy of seventeen sewing as he lay on the sofa. There were
+some books on the floor within his reach, and a glass of lemonade was
+set upon the window-sill, but he seemed quite absorbed in making fine
+stitches. He looked up, however, as they came in and smiled at his
+mother.
+
+"I have nearly finished," he said. "Presently I shall read the
+sonnet, '_Pace non trovo, e non ho da far guerra_,' to refresh
+myself."
+
+"This is the signorina who teaches English, _nino mio_."
+
+His face lit up at once and he held out his hand. "I have already
+studied the grammar, but the pronunciation ... ah! that will be hard
+to learn. Will you help me, signorina?"
+
+"Yes, indeed I will. We will read and talk together, and soon you will
+speak English better than I can Italian."
+
+As she spoke and smiled her heart ached to see the hollowness of his
+cheeks and the lines of pain about his young mouth. She guessed that
+his poor body was all twisted and deformed under the rug that covered
+it. Signora Aurelia took her out on to their little terrace garden
+before she left. Twenty miles and more of fair Tuscan earth lay at
+their feet, grey olive groves and green vineyards, and the hills
+beyond all shimmering in the first heat of spring. Olive exclaimed at
+the beauty of the world.
+
+"Yes. On summer evenings Astorre can lie here and watch what he calls
+the pageant of the skies. The poor child is so fond of colour. I know
+you will be very patient with him, signorina. He is so clever, but
+some days he is in pain, and then he gets tired and so cannot learn so
+well. You have kindly promised to come twice a week, but I must tell
+you that I am not rich--" She looked at Olive wistfully.
+
+The girl dared not offer to teach Astorre for nothing. "I can see your
+son will be a very good pupil," she said hastily. "Would one lire the
+lesson suit you?"
+
+"Oh, yes," the signora said with evident relief. "But are you sure
+that is enough? You must not sacrifice yourself, my dear--"
+
+"It will be a pleasure to come," Olive said very sincerely.
+
+The acquaintance soon ripened into a triangular friendship. The
+signora grew to love the girl because she amused Astorre and was never
+obviously sorry for him, or too gentle with him, as were some of the
+well-meaning people who came to see the boy. "An overflow of pity is
+like grease exuding," he said once. "I hate it."
+
+He was very old for his years. He had read everything apparently, and
+he discussed problems of life and death with the air of a man of
+forty. He had no illusions about himself. "I shall die," he said once
+to Olive when his mother was not in the room. "My father gave me a
+spirit that burns like Greek fire and a body like--like a spent
+shell."
+
+The easy, desultory lessons were often prolonged, and then the girl
+stayed to dinner and played dominoes afterwards with him or with his
+mother until ten o'clock, when old Carolina came to fetch her home.
+The withered little serving-woman was voluble, and always cheerfully
+ready to lighten the way with descriptions of the last moments of her
+children. She had had thirteen, and two were still surviving. "One
+grows accustomed, _signorina mia_--"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+"You have been crying," Astorre said abruptly.
+
+Olive leant against the balustrade of the little terrace. She was
+watching the fireflies that sparkled in the dusk of the vineyards in
+the valley below. A breeze had risen from the sea at sunset, and it
+stirred the leaves of the climbing roses and brought a faint sound of
+convent bells far away. Some stars shone in the clear pale sky.
+
+Dinner had been cleared away, and Signora Aurelia had gone in to
+finish a white dress she was making for a bride. Olive had offered to
+help her. "I would rather you amused yourself with Astorre. I can see
+you are tired," she had answered as she left them together.
+
+"You have been crying," the boy repeated insistently.
+
+She smiled at him then. "May I not shed tears if I choose?"
+
+"I must know why," he answered.
+
+"Oh, a castle in Spain."
+
+He looked at her searchingly. "And a castellan?"
+
+"Yes. I want a man, and I cannot have him. _Ecco!_"
+
+She did not expect him to take her seriously, but he was often
+perversely inclined. "Of course," he said in a matter-of-fact tone,
+"all women want a man or men. Do you think I have been lying here all
+these years without finding that out? That need is the mainspring of
+life, the key to heaven, and the root of all evil. If--if I were
+different someone would want me--" His voice broke.
+
+Olive looked away from him. "How still the night is," she said. "The
+nightingales are singing in the woods below, Astorre. Do you hear
+them?"
+
+"I am not deaf," he answered in a muffled voice, "I hear them. Will
+you hear me?"
+
+Watching her closely he saw that she shrank from him. "Do not be
+afraid," he said gruffly. "I am not going to be a fool. No man on
+earth is worth your tears. That is all I wanted to say."
+
+"Ah, child, you are young for all your wisdom. I was not sorry for him
+but for myself."
+
+"Liar!" he cried petulantly, and then caught at her hand. "Forgive me!
+Come now and read me a sonnet of your Keats and then translate it to
+me."
+
+Obediently she stooped to pick up the book. The flame of the little
+lamp on the table at his side burned steadily.
+
+He lay with closed eyes and lips that moved, repeating the words after
+her. "It is very good to listen to your voice while you are here with
+me alone under the stars," he said presently. "Tell me, does this man
+love you?"
+
+She was silent.
+
+"Does he love you?"
+
+"I think he did, but perhaps he has forgotten me now."
+
+"I love you," the boy said deliberately.
+
+"I cannot come again if you talk like this, Astorre."
+
+"I shall never say it again," he answered, "but I want you to remember
+that it is so, because it may comfort you. Such words never come amiss
+to women. They feed on the hunger of our hearts."
+
+"Don't say that!" she cried. "It is true that I like you to be fond of
+me, and I love you. In the best way, Astorre--oh, do believe that it
+is the best way!"
+
+"With your soul, I suppose? Do you think I am an angel because I am a
+cripple?" he asked bitterly.
+
+"I am sorry--"
+
+"Poor little girl," he said more gently, "I have hurt you instead of
+comforting you, as I meant to do. But how can I give what is not mine?
+How can I cry 'Peace,' when there is no peace? You will suffer still
+when I am at rest."
+
+The boy's mother put down her work presently and came out to them, and
+the three sat silently watching the moon rise beyond the hills. It was
+as though a veil had been withdrawn to show the glimmer of distant
+streams, the white walls of peasant dwellings set among their vines,
+the belfry tower of an old Carthusian monastery belted in by tall dark
+cypresses, and the twisted shadows thrown by the gnarled trunks and
+outstanding roots of the olive trees.
+
+"All blue and silver," cried the girl after a while. "Thank God for
+Italy!"
+
+"She has cost her children dear," the elder woman answered, sighing.
+"Beyond that rampart of hills lies the Maremma, and swamps, marshes,
+forests are to be drained now, they say, and made profitable. You will
+see some peasants from over there in our streets at the time of the
+Palio. Poor souls! They are so lean and haggard and yellow that their
+bones seem to be piercing through their discoloured skins."
+
+"The Palio! I think Signor Lucis is coming to Siena to see it," Olive
+said.
+
+"Is that the man your cousin Gemma is to marry?" the dressmaker asked
+curiously. "I had heard that she was engaged, but one hears so many
+things. Do you like her?"
+
+"Not very much, but really I see very little of her. I am out all day
+teaching."
+
+The door-bell clanged as the girl rose to go. "That is Carolina come
+for her stray sheep," she said, smiling. "They will not believe that I
+can come home by myself at night."
+
+"They are quite right. If your aunt's servant did not come for you I
+should take you back to the Piazza Tolomei myself."
+
+"You forget that I am English."
+
+Olive never attempted to explain her code; she stated her nationality
+and went on her way. Her first pupils had all been young girls, but as
+it became known that she was really English her circle widened. The
+prior of a Dominican convent near San Giorgio, and two privates from a
+regiment of Lancers stationed in the Fortezza, came to her to be
+taught, and some of Astorre's friends, students at the University,
+were very anxious for lessons, and as the Menotti refused to have them
+in their house Olive had to hire a room to receive them.
+
+The aunt disapproved. "It is not right," she said, and when Olive
+assured her that she could not afford to lose good pupils she shook
+her large head.
+
+"You will go your own way, I suppose, but do not bring your men here.
+I cannot have soldiers scratching up the carpet with their spurs, or
+monks dropping snuff on it."
+
+Olive's days were filled, and she, having no time for the
+self-tormentings of idle women, was content to be not quite unhappy.
+She needed love and could not rest without it, and she was at least
+partially satisfied. Astorre and his mother adored her, thought her
+perfect, held her dear. All her pupils seemed to like her, and some of
+the students brought her little gifts of flowers, and packets of
+chocolate and almond-rock that Maria ate for her. The prior gave her a
+plaster statuette of St Catherine. "She was clever, and so are you,"
+he said.
+
+"Carmela, I am not really _antipatica_?"
+
+"What foolishness! No."
+
+"Why does Gemma hate me then? No one else does, or if they do they
+hide it, but she looks daggers at me always."
+
+Carmela had been invited to tea in her cousin's bedroom. The water did
+not boil yet, but her mouth was already full of cake.
+
+"What happened the other night when Gemma let you in?" she mumbled.
+
+"Did she say anything to you?"
+
+"No, but I am not blind or deaf. You have not spoken to each other
+since."
+
+Olive lifted the kettle off the spirit lamp. "You like it weak, I
+know."
+
+"Yes, and three lumps of sugar. Tell me what happened, _cara_."
+
+"Well, as I came up the stairs that night I noticed a strong scent of
+tobacco--good tobacco. Sienese boys smoke cheap cigarettes, and the
+older men get black Tuscan cigars, but this was different. It reminded
+me of-- Oh, well, never mind. When I came to the first landing I felt
+sure there was someone standing close against the wall waiting for me
+to go by, and yet when I spoke no one answered. You know how dark it
+is on the stairs at night. I could not see anything, but I listened,
+and, Carmela, a watch was ticking quite near me, by my ear. I could
+not move for a moment, and then I heard Carolina calling--she was
+with me, you know, but she had gone up first--and I got up somehow.
+Gemma let us in. She said she had been asleep, and I noticed that her
+hair was all loose and tumbled. I told her I fancied there was someone
+lurking on the stairs, and she said it must have been the cat, but I
+knew from the way she said it that she was angry. She lit her candle
+and marched off into her own room without saying good-night, and I was
+sorry because I have always wanted to be friends with her. I thought I
+would try to say something about it, so I went to her door and
+knocked. She opened it directly. 'Go away, spy,' she said very
+distinctly, and then I grew angry too. I laughed. 'So there was a man
+on the stairs,' I said."
+
+Carmela stirred her tea thoughtfully. "Ah!" she said. "How nice these
+spoons are. I wish you would tell me who gave them to you."
+
+She helped herself to another cake. "Gemma is difficult, and we shall
+all be glad when September comes and she is safely married. She is
+lazy. You have seen us of a morning, cutting out, basting, stitching
+at her wedding clothes, while she sits with her hands folded. Are you
+coming out with us this evening?"
+
+The Menotti strolled down to the Lizza nearly every day after the
+_siesta_, and Carmela often persuaded her cousin to accompany them.
+The gardens were set on an outlying spur of the hill on which the
+wolf's foster son, Remus, built the city that was to be fairer than
+Rome. The winter winds, coming swiftly from the sea, whipped the
+laurels into strange shapes, shook the brown seed pods from the bare
+boughs of the acacias, and froze the water that dripped from the
+Medicean balls on the old wall of the Fortezza. Even in summer a
+little breeze would spring up towards sunset, and the leaves that had
+hung heavy and flaccid on the trees in the blazing heat of noon would
+be stirred by it to some semblance of life, while the shadows
+lengthened, and the incessant maddening scream of the locusts died
+down into silence. The gardens were a favourite resort. As the church
+bells rang the Ave Maria the people came to them by Camollia and San
+Domenico, to see each other and to talk over the news of the day.
+
+Smart be-ribboned nurses carrying babies on white silk cushions tied
+with pink or blue rosettes, young married women with their children,
+stout mothers chaperoning the elaborate vivacity of their daughters,
+occupied seats near the bandstand, or lingered about the paths as they
+chattered and fanned themselves incessantly to the strains of the
+Intermezzo from _Cavalleria Rusticana_ or some march of Verdi's. A
+great gulf was fixed between the sexes on these occasions. The young
+men congregated about the base of Garibaldi's statue; more or less
+gilded youths devoted to "le Sport," wearing black woollen jerseys
+and perforated cycling shoes, while lady-killers braved strangulation
+in four-inch collars. There were soldiers too, cavalry lieutenants,
+slender, erect, and very conscious of their charms, and dark-faced
+priests, who listened to the music carefully with their eyes fixed on
+the ground, as being in the crowd but not of it. Olive watched them
+all with mingled amusement and impatience. If only the boys would talk
+to their friends' sisters instead of eyeing them furtively from afar;
+if only the girls would refrain from useless needlework and empty
+laughter. They talked incessantly and called every mortal--and
+immortal--thing _carina_. Queen Margherita was _carina_, and so was
+the new cross-stitch, and so was this blue-eyed Olive. Yes, they
+admitted her alien charm. She was _strana_, too, but they did not use
+that word when she was there or she would have rejoiced over such an
+enlargement of their vocabulary.
+
+"They are amiable," she told Astorre, "but we have not one idea in
+common."
+
+"Ah," he said, "can one woman ever praise another without that 'but'?
+Do you think them pretty?" he asked.
+
+"Yes, but one does not notice them when Gemma is there."
+
+"That is the pale one, isn't it? I have heard of her from the
+students, and also from the professors of the University. One of my
+friends raves about her Greek profile and her straight black brows. He
+calls her his silent Sappho, but I fancy Odalisque is a better name
+for her. There is no brain or heart, is there?"
+
+"I don't know," she answered uncertainly. "She seldom speaks to
+anyone, never to me."
+
+"She is jealous of you probably."
+
+The heats of July tried the boy. He was not so well as he had been in
+the spring, and lately he had not been able to help his mother with
+her needlework. The hours of enforced idleness seemed very long, and
+he watched for Olive's coming with pathetic eagerness. She never
+failed to appear on Tuesdays and Saturdays, though the lessons had
+been given up since his head ached when he tried to learn. Signora
+Aurelia met her always at the door with protestations of gratitude.
+"You amuse him and make him laugh, my dear, because you are so fresh,
+and you do not mind what you say. It is good of you to come so far in
+the sun."
+
+The girl's heart ached to see the haggard young face so white against
+the dark velvet of the piled-up cushions. The deep grey eyes lit up
+with pleasure at the sight of her, but she found it hard to meet their
+yearning with a smile.
+
+Sometimes she found old men sitting with him, grave and potent
+signiors, professors from the University, who, on being introduced,
+beamed paternally and asked her questions about Oxford and Cambridge.
+There were bashful youths too, who blushed when she entered and rose
+hurriedly with muttered excuses. If they could be induced to stay,
+Olive, seeing that it pleased Astorre to see them shuffling their feet
+and writhing on their chairs in an agony of embarrassment before her,
+did her best to make them uncomfortable.
+
+"Your friends are all so timid," she said. He looked at her with a
+kind of triumph, a pride of possession.
+
+"They do not understand you as I do. Fausto admires you, but you
+frighten him."
+
+"Is he Gemma's adorer?" she asked with a careful display of
+indifference.
+
+"Yes, he is always _amoroso_."
+
+"Ah! Does he smoke?"
+
+"Yes. Why?"
+
+"Oh, nothing," she said. She did not really believe that the man on
+the stairs could have been Fausto. Gemma would not look twice at such
+a harmless infant now. When she was forty-five, perhaps, she might
+smile on boys, but at twenty-six--
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+Olive sat in her little bedroom correcting exercises.
+
+It was the drowsy middle of the afternoon and the heat was intense.
+All the grey-green and golden land of Tuscany lay still and helpless
+at the mercy of the sun. The birds had long ceased singing, and only
+the thin shrilling of the locusts broke the August silence. The
+parched earth was pale, and great cracks that only the autumn rains
+could fill had opened on the hillsides, but the ripening maize lay
+snug within its narrow sheaths of green, and the leaves of the vines
+hid great bunches of purpling grapes. In the fields men rested awhile
+from their labours, and the patient white oxen stood in the shade of
+the mulberries, while the sunburnt lads who drove them bathed their
+tired bodies in the stream, or lay idly in the lush grass at the
+water's edge.
+
+In the town the walls of houses that had fronted the morning sun were
+scorching to the touch, and there was no coolness even in the steep
+northward streets that were always in shadow, or in the grey
+stone-paved courts of the palaces. There were few people about at this
+hour, and the little stream of traffic had run dry in the Via Cavour.
+A vendor of melons drew his barrow close up to the battered old column
+in the Piazza Tolomei, and squatted down on the ground beside it.
+"_Cocomeri! Fresc' e buoni!_" he cried once or twice, and then rolled
+over and went to sleep. A peasant girl carrying a basket of eggs
+passed presently, and she looked wistfully at the fruit, but she did
+not disturb his slumbers.
+
+"Is that the aunt of your friend's mother? No, it is the sister of my
+niece's governess." Olive laid down her pen. She was only partially
+dressed and her hair hung loosely about her bare white shoulders. The
+heat made hairpins seem a burden and outer garments superfluous. "My
+niece's governess is the last. Thank Heaven for that!" she said, and
+she sat down on the brick floor to take off her stockings. Gemma's
+_fidanzato_, her lawyer from Lucca, was coming to Siena for a week. He
+would lodge next door and come in to the Menotti for most of his
+meals, and already poor old Carolina was busy in the hot, airless
+kitchen, beating up eggs for a _zabajone_, and Signora Carosi had gone
+out to buy ice for the wine and sweet cakes to be handed round with
+little glasses of _vin_ Santo or Marsala.
+
+Carmela came into her cousin's room soon after four o'clock. "I have
+just taken Gemma a cup of black coffee. Her head aches terribly."
+
+"I heard her moving about her room in the night," Olive answered, and
+she added, under her breath, "Poor Gemma!"
+
+Carmela lowered her voice too. "Of course Maria and I know that you
+see what is going on as well as we do. There is some man ... she lets
+down a basket from her window at nights for letters, and I believe she
+meets him when my aunt thinks she has gone to Mass. It is dreadful.
+How glad we shall be when she is safely married and away."
+
+"Who is the man?"
+
+"Hush! I don't know. Do you hear the beating of a drum? One of the
+_Contrade_ is coming."
+
+The two girls ran to the window, and Olive opened the green shutters a
+little way that they might see out without being seen. The day of the
+Palio was close at hand, and the pages and _alfieri_ of the rival
+parishes, whose horses were to run in the race, were already going
+about the town. Olive never tired of watching the flash of bright
+colours as the flags were flung up and deftly caught again, and she
+cried out now with pleasure as the little procession moved leisurely
+across the piazza.
+
+"I wonder why they come here," Carmela said, as the first _alfiero_
+let the heavy folds of silk ripple about his head, twisted the staff,
+seemed to drop it, and gathered it to him again easily with his left
+hand. The page stood aside with a grave assumption of the gilded
+graces of the thirteenth century. He was handsome in his dress of
+green and white and scarlet velvet.
+
+"Why does he look up here?"
+
+Olive laughed a little. "He is the son of the cobbler who mends my
+boots," she whispered. "He is trying to learn English and I have lent
+him some books, and that is why he has come to do us honour. I think
+it is charming of him."
+
+She took a white magnolia blossom from a glass dish on her table.
+"Shall I be mediaeval too?"
+
+The boy raised smiling eyes as the pale flower came fluttering down to
+him. One of the _alfieri_ laughed aloud.
+
+"_O Romeo, sei bello!_"
+
+"_Son' felice!_" he answered, and he kissed the waxen petals ardently.
+
+Olive softly clapped her hands together. "Is he not delicious! What an
+actor! Oh, Italy!"
+
+Now that the performance was over the _alfieri_ strolled across the
+piazza to the barrow that was still drawn up by the column.
+"_Cocomeri! Fresc' e buoni!_"
+
+"I never know what will please you," Carmela said as she sat down.
+"But foreigners always like the Palio. You will see many English and
+Americans and Germans on the stands."
+
+"Yes, I love it all. Yesterday I passed through the Piazza del Campo
+and saw the workmen putting palings all about the centre, and
+hammering at the stands, while others strewed sand on the course and
+fastened mattresses to the side of the house by San Martino."
+
+"Ah, the _fantini_ are often thrown there and flung against the wall.
+If there were no mattresses ... crack!" Carmela made a sound as of
+breaking bones and hummed a few bars of Chopin's _Marche Funebre_.
+
+Olive shuddered. "You are an impressionist, Carmela. Two dabs of
+scarlet and a smear--half a word and a shrug of the shoulders--and you
+have expressed a five-act tragedy. I think you could act."
+
+"Oh, I am not clever; I should never be able to remember my part."
+
+"You would improvise," Olive was beginning, when Carmela sprang up and
+ran to the window again.
+
+"It is Orazio!" she cried. "He has come in a cab."
+
+The _vetturino_ had pulled his horse up with a jerk of the reins after
+the manner of his kind; the wretched animal had slipped and he was now
+beating it about the head with the butt end of his whip. His fare had
+got out and was looking on calmly.
+
+Olive hastily picked up one of her shoes and flung it at them. It
+struck the _vetturino_ just above the ear. "A nasty crack," she said.
+"His language is evidently frightful. It is a good thing I can't
+understand it, Carmela."
+
+She looked down at the angry, bewildered men, and the _vetturino_,
+catching a glimpse of the flushed face framed in a soft fluff of brown
+hair, shook his fist and roared a curse upon it.
+
+"Touch that horse again and I'll throw a jug of boiling water over
+you," she cried as she drew the green shutters to; and then, in quite
+another tone, "Oh, Giovanni, be good. What has the poor beast ever
+done to you?" She turned to Carmela. "I know him. His wife does
+washing for Signora Aurelia," she explained.
+
+A slow grin overspread the man's heavy face as he rubbed his head.
+
+"Mad English," he said, and then looked closely at the coin the
+Lucchese had tendered him.
+
+"Your legal fare," Orazio began pompously.
+
+"Santo Diavolo--"
+
+"I am a lawyer."
+
+"_Si capisce!_ Will you give the signorina her shoe?" He handed it to
+Orazio, who took it awkwardly.
+
+"The incident is closed," Olive said as she came back to her cooling
+tea. "I hope there is a heaven for horses and a hell for men. Oh, how
+I hate cruelty! Carmela, if that is Orazio I must say I sympathise
+with Gemma. How could any woman love a mean, narrow-shouldered,
+whitey-brown paper thing like that?"
+
+"It is a pity," sighed Carmela as she moved towards the door. "But
+after all they are all alike in the end. I must go now to help Maria
+lace. I pull a little, and then wait a few minutes. _E un martirio!_"
+
+"Why does she do it?"
+
+"Why does an ostrich bury its head in the sand? Why does a camel try
+to get through the eye of a needle? (But perhaps he does not.) I often
+tell her fat cannot be hidden, but she will not believe."
+
+When Olive went into the _salotto_ a few minutes before seven she
+found the family assembled. Signor Lucis rose from his place at
+Gemma's side as the aunt uttered the introductory formula. He brought
+his heels together and bowed stiffly from the waist, and when Olive
+gave him her hand in English fashion he took it limply and held it for
+a moment before he dropped it. His string-coloured moustache was
+brushed up from a loose-lipped mouth, and he showed bad teeth when he
+smiled.
+
+"The signorina speaks Italian?"
+
+"Oh, yes."
+
+"Ah, does she come from London?"
+
+"I had no settled home in England."
+
+"Ah! The sun never shines there?"
+
+She laughed. "Not as it does here," she admitted. "Where is my shoe?"
+
+"It was yours then?" he said with an attempt at playfulness. "Gemma
+has been quite jealous of the unknown owner, but she says it is much
+larger than any of hers." The girls' eyes met but neither spoke, and
+Orazio babbled on, unheeding: "Her feet are _carini_, and I can span
+her ankle with my thumb and forefinger; but you are small made too,
+signorina."
+
+Carolina poked her head in at the door. "_Al suo comodo e pronto_,"
+she said, referring to the dinner, and hurried away again to dish up
+the veal cutlets.
+
+The young man contrived to remain behind in the _salotto_ for a moment
+and to keep Gemma with him. Olive looked at them as they took their
+places at table, and she understood that the girl had had to submit to
+some caress. She looked sick and her lips were quite white, and if
+Lucis had been a man of quick perceptions he would have realised, her
+face must have shown him, that she loathed him. He was dense, however,
+and though he commented on her silence later on it was evident that he
+attributed it to shyness.
+
+Olive, thinking to do well, flung herself into the conversational
+breach. Her cousins had nothing to say, and the aunt's thoughts were
+set on the dinner and cumbered with much serving. So she talked to him
+as in duty bound, and he seemed inclined to banter her.
+
+Her feet, her temper, her relations with _vetturini_. He was
+execrable, but she would not take offence.
+
+After dinner they all sat in the little _salotto_ until it was time to
+go to the theatre, and still Olive talked and laughed with Orazio,
+teaching him English words and making fun of his pronunciation of
+them. Gemma watched her sombrely and judged her by her own standards,
+and Carmela caught at her cousin's arm presently as they passed down
+the crowded Via Cavour together.
+
+"Why did you make her so angry? She will always hate you now. I did
+not know you were _civetta_."
+
+Olive looked startled. "Angry? What do you mean?"
+
+"Why did you speak so much to Orazio? Gemma thought you wanted to take
+her husband from her and she will not forgive."
+
+"Why, I could see it made her ill to look at him and that she shrank
+from his touch, and I did as I would be done by. I distracted his
+attention."
+
+Carmela laughed in spite of herself. "Oh, Olive, and I thought you
+were so clever. Do you not understand that one can be jealous of a man
+one does not love? I know that though I am stupid. All Italians are
+jealous. You must remember that."
+
+"I am sorry," Olive said ruefully after a pause. "I see you are right.
+She will never believe that I wanted to help her. If only you could
+persuade her to give up Orazio. Surely the other man would come
+forward then. You and Maria talk of getting her safely married and
+away, but I see farther. There can be no safety in union with the
+wrong man--"
+
+Carmela shook her head. "She wants a husband," she said stolidly,
+"and Orazio will make a good one. You do not understand us, my dear.
+You can please yourself with dreams and fancies, but we are
+different."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+Olive was careful to sit down with Carmela on one side of their box on
+the second tier, leaving two chairs in front for the _fidanzati_, but
+the young man made several efforts to include her in the conversation
+and she understood that she had put herself in a false position.
+Orazio had misunderstood her because her manners were not the manners
+of Lucca, and he knew no others. It annoyed her to see that he plumed
+himself on his conquest, but her sense of humour enabled her to avoid
+his glances with a good grace, especially as she realised that she had
+brought them on herself.
+
+She felt nothing but pity for her cousin now. It would be terrible to
+marry a man like that, she thought, and she wondered that so many
+women could rush in where angels feared to tread. She believed that
+there were infinite possibilities of happiness in the holy state of
+matrimony, but it seemed to her that perhaps the less said of some
+actualities the better.
+
+Carmela was right. At this time she pastured on dreams and fancies.
+Her emotions were not starved, but they were kept down and only
+allowed to nibble. She thought often of the man who had been kind to
+her, and sometimes she wished that he had kissed her. It would have
+been something to remember. Often, if she closed her eyes, she could
+almost cheat herself into believing him there close beside her, his
+brown gaze upon her, his lips quivering with a strange eagerness that
+troubled her and yet made her glad. Jean Avenel. It was a good name.
+
+He had gone to America and she assured herself that he must have
+forgotten her, but she did not try to forget him. She nursed the
+little wistful sorrow for what might have been, as women will, and
+would not bind up the scratch he had inflicted. Already she had
+learned that some pain is pleasant, and that a stinging sweetness may
+be distilled from tears. Sometimes at night, when it was too hot to
+sleep and she lay watching the fine silver lines of moonlight passing
+across the floor, she asked herself if she would see him again, and
+when, and how, and wove all manner of cobweb fancies about what might
+be.
+
+She ripened quickly as fruit ripens in the hot sunshine of Italy; her
+lips were more sweetly curved and coloured, and her blue eyes were
+shadowed now. They were like sapphires seen through a veil.
+
+Maria gave her the opera-glasses and she raised them to scan the
+house. It was a gala night and the theatre was hung with flags and
+brilliantly illuminated. There were candles everywhere, and the great
+chandelier that hung from the ceiling was lit. The heat was stifling,
+and the incessant fluttering of fans gave the women in the _parterre_
+and in the crowded boxes a look of unrest that was belied by their
+placid, expressionless faces. Many glanced up at the Menotti in their
+box. There was some criticism of Gemma's Lucchese.
+
+"He is ugly, but she could not expect to get a husband here where she
+is so well known. They say--"
+
+"The Capuan Psyche and a rose from the garden of Eden," said a man in
+the stage box, who had discerned Olive's fresh, eager prettiness
+beyond the pale beauty of the Odalisque.
+
+He handed the glasses to his neighbour. "Choose."
+
+"The _role_ of Paris is a thankless one; it involved death in the end
+for the shepherd prince."
+
+"Yes, but you are not a shepherd prince."
+
+The man addressed was handsome as a faun might be and as a tiger is.
+Not sleek, but lean and brown, with hot, insolent eyes and a fine and
+cruel mouth. A great emerald sparkled on the little finger of his left
+hand. He was one of the few in the house who wore evening dress, and
+he was noticeable on that account, but he had been standing talking
+with some other men at the back of his box hitherto. He came forward
+now and Gemma saw him. Her set lips relaxed and seemed to redden as
+she met his bold, lifted gaze, but as his eyes left hers and he
+raised his glasses to stare past her at Olive her face contracted so
+that for the moment she was almost ugly.
+
+The performance was timed to begin at nine, but at twenty minutes past
+the hour newsvendors were still going to and fro with bundles of
+evening papers, and the orchestra was represented by a melancholy
+bald-headed man with a cornet. The other musicians came in leisurely,
+one by one, and at last the conductor took his place and the audience
+settled down and was comparatively quiet while the Royal March was
+being played. The orchestra had begun the overture to _Rigoletto_ when
+some of the men who stood in the packed arena behind the _palchi_
+cried out and their friends in other parts of the house joined in.
+They howled like wolves, and for a few minutes the uproar was
+terrific, and Verdi's music was overwhelmed by the clamour of voices
+until the conductor, turning towards the audience, said something
+inaudible with a deprecating bow and a quick movement of his hands.
+
+"_Ora, zitti!_" yelled a voice from the gallery.
+
+Silence was instant, and the whole house rose and stood reverently,
+listening to a weird and confused jumble of broken chords that yet
+could stir the pulses and quicken the beating of young hearts.
+
+Olive had risen with the rest. "What is it?" she whispered to Maria.
+
+"Garibaldi's Hymn."
+
+It seemed a red harmony of rebellious souls, climbing, struggling,
+clutching at the skirts of Freedom. The patter of spent shot, the
+heavy breathing of hunted fugitives, the harsh crying of dying men,
+the rush of feet that stumbled as they came over the graves of the
+Past; all these sounds of bygone strife rang, as it were, faintly,
+beyond the strange music, as the sea echoes, sighing, in a shell.
+
+Signora Aurelia had told Olive how in the years before Italy was free
+and united under the king, when Guiseppe Verdi was a young man, the
+students would call his name in the theatre until the house rang to
+the cry of "_Viva Verdi! Viva Verdi!_" A little because they loved
+their music-maker, more because V. E. R. D. I. meant Vittor Emanuele,
+Re D'Italia, and they liked to sing his forbidden praises in the very
+ears of the white-coat Austrians.
+
+They had their Victor. Had he not sufficed? Olive knew that the
+authorities scarcely countenanced the playing of the Republican hymn.
+Was it because it made men long for some greater ruler than a king, or
+for no ruler at all? Freedom is more elusive even than happiness.
+Never yet has she yielded herself to men, though she makes large
+promises and exacts sacrifices as cruel as ever those of Moloch could
+have been. Her altars stream with blood, but she ... she is talking,
+or she is pursuing, or she is on a journey, or peradventure she
+sleepeth ... and her prophets must still call upon her and cut
+themselves with knives.
+
+As the curtain went up Olive leant forward that she might see the
+stage. It was her first opera. Music is a necessity in Italy, but in
+England it is a luxury, and somehow she and her mother had never been
+able to afford even seats in the gallery at Covent Garden.
+
+Now all her thoughts, all her fancies, were swept away in the flood of
+charming melody. The story, when she understood it, shocked and
+repelled her. It seemed strange that crime should be set to music, and
+that one should have to see abduction, treachery, vice, and a murder
+brutally committed in full view of the audience, while the tenor sang
+the lightest of all his lyrics: "_La donna e mobile_."
+
+Gemma asked for an ice during the second _entr'acte_, and Orazio
+hurried out to get one for her at the buffet. The girl looked tired,
+but she was kind to her lover in her silent, languid way, listening to
+his whispered inanities, and allowing him to hold her hand, though her
+flesh shrank from the damp clamminess of his grasp, and she hated his
+nearness and wished him away.
+
+The man who sat alone now in the stage box could see no flaw in her
+composure, and she seemed to him as perfectly calm as she was
+perfectly beautiful, though he had noticed that not once had she
+looked towards the stage. She kept her eyes down, and they were
+shadowed by the long black lashes. Ah, she was beautiful! The man's
+lean brown face was troubled and he sighed under his breath. He went
+out in the middle of the third act, and he did not come back again.
+
+After a while Gemma moved restlessly. "Orazio, _per carita_! Your hand
+is so hot and sticky! I shall change places with Carmela," she said.
+She released her fingers from the young man's grasp with the air of
+one crushing a forward insect or removing a bramble from the path, and
+she actually beckoned to her sister to come.
+
+Orazio flushed red and he seemed about to speak as Carmela rose from
+her seat, but the aunt interposed hurriedly.
+
+"Sit still, Gemma, you are tired or you would not speak so. The lights
+hurt your eyes and make your head ache."
+
+"Yes, I am tired," the girl said wearily. "I slept ill last night.
+Forgive me, Orazio, if I was cross. I am sorry."
+
+Her dull submission touched Olive with a sudden sense of pity and of
+fear, but Orazio was blind and deaf to all things written between the
+lines of life, and he could not interpret it.
+
+"I do not always understand you," he said stiffly, and he would not
+relax until presently she drew nearer to him of her own accord.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+The Vicolo dei Moribondi is the narrowest of all the steep stone-paved
+streets that lead from the upper town to the market-place of Siena,
+and the great red bulk of the Palazzo Pubblico overshadows it. Olive
+had come that way once from the Porta Romana, and seeing the legend:
+"_Affitasi una camera_" displayed in the doorway of one of the shabby
+houses, had been moved to climb the many stairs to see the room in
+question.
+
+It proved to be a veritable eyrie, large, bare, passably clean, and
+very well lighted. From the window she saw the hillside below the
+church of San Giuseppe, a huddle of red roofs and grey olive orchards
+melting into a blue haze of distance beyond the city walls, and the
+crowning heights of San Quirico. Leaning out over the sill of
+crumbling stone she looked down into the Vicolo as into a well.
+
+The rent was very low, and the woman who had the room to let seemed a
+decent though a frowsy old soul, and so the matter was settled there
+and then, and Olive had left the house with the key of her new domain
+in her pocket.
+
+She had bought a table and two chairs and a shelf for her books at a
+second-hand furniture shop near the Duomo, and had given her first
+lesson there two days later, and soon the quiet place seemed more like
+home to her than the stuffy flat in the Piazza Tolomei. What matter if
+she came to it breathless from climbing five flights of stairs? It was
+good to be high up above the stale odours of the streets. The window
+was always open. There were no woollen mats to be faded or waxen
+fruits to be melted by the sun's heat. A little plaster bust of Dante
+stood on the table, and Olive kept the flowers her pupils gave her,
+pink oleander blossoms and white roses from the terrace gardens, in a
+jar of majolica ware, but otherwise the place was unadorned.
+
+"It is like a convent," Carmela said when she came there with Maria
+and her aunt for an English tea-drinking.
+
+Signora Carosi had sipped a little tea and eaten a good many of the
+cakes Olive had bought from the _pasticceria_. "The situation is
+impossible," she remarked, as she brushed the crumbs off her lap.
+
+"The stairs are a drawback," Olive admitted, not without malice, "but
+fortunately my pupils are all young and strong."
+
+"You are English. I always say that when I am asked how I can permit
+such things. 'What would you? She teaches men grammar alone in an
+attic. I cannot help it. She is English.'"
+
+Gemma had been asked to come too on this occasion, but she had excused
+herself. She so often had headaches when the others were going out,
+and they would leave her lying down in her room. When they came back
+she was always up and better, and yet she seemed feverish and strange.
+Then sometimes of a morning, when Maria and the aunt had gone out
+marketing, and Carmela, shapeless and dishevelled in her white cotton
+jacket, was dusting or ironing, the beautiful idle sister would come
+out of her room, dressed for the street and carrying a prayer-book.
+Carmela would remonstrate with her. "You are not going alone?"
+
+"Only to mass."
+
+On the morning of the fifteenth of August she did not go with the
+others to the parish church at six o'clock, but she was up early,
+nevertheless. She wrote a letter, and presently, having sealed it, she
+dropped it out of the window. A boy who had been lingering about the
+piazza since dawn, and staring up at the close-shuttered fronts of the
+tall houses, picked it up and ran off with it. When Maria and Carmela
+came back with their aunt soon after seven they drank their black
+coffee in the kitchen before going to their rooms to rest. Carolina
+took Olive's breakfast in to her on a tray when they were gone. The
+English girl had milk with her coffee and some slices of bread spread
+with rancid butter. Gemma lay in wait for the old woman and stopped
+her as she came from the kitchen.
+
+"Find out what she is going to do to-day," she whispered.
+
+Carolina nodded and her shrivelled monkey face was puckered into a
+smile. She came back presently. "She is going to the Duomo and then to
+_colazione_ with the De Sancti. She will go with Signora Aurelia to
+see the Palio and only come back here to supper."
+
+Gemma went back to her room to finish her dressing. She put on a pink
+muslin frock and a hat of white straw wreathed with roses and leaves.
+Surely her beauty should avail to give her all she desired, light and
+warmth always, diamonds and fine laces, and silks to clothe her and
+give her grace, and the possession of the one man's heart, with his
+name and a place in the world beside him. Surely she was not destined
+to live with Orazio and his tiresome mother, penned up in a shabby
+little house in Lucca, and there growing old and hideous. She sat
+before her glass thinking these thoughts and waiting until she heard
+Olive's quick, light step in the passage and then the opening and
+shutting of the front door. Carolina was in the kitchen and the others
+had gone to lie down, but she went into the dining-room and listened
+for a moment there before she ventured into her cousin's room. She had
+often been in to pry when alone in the flat, and she knew where to
+look for the key of the attic in the Vicolo. Olive always kept it in a
+corner of the table drawer and it was there now. Gemma smiled her rare
+slow smile as she put it in her purse. There was a photograph of her
+aunt--Olive's mother--on the dressing-table, and a Tauchnitz edition
+of Swinburne's _Atalanta in Calydon_ lay beside it, the embroidered
+tassel of the marker being one of Astorre's pitiful little gifts. She
+swept them off on to the floor and poured the contents of the
+ink-stand over them. She had acted on a spiteful impulse, and she was
+half afraid when she saw the black stream trickling over the book and
+blotting out the face of the woman who had been of her kin. It seemed
+unlucky, a _malore_, and she was vexed with herself. She looked into
+the kitchen on her way out. "Carolina, if they ask where I am I have
+gone to church."
+
+The old woman nodded. "Very well, signorina, but you are becoming too
+devout. _Bada, figlia mia!_"
+
+Siena is a city dedicated to the Virgin, and the feast of her
+Assumption is the greatest of all her red-letter days. The streets had
+echoed at dawn to the feet of _contadini_ coming in by the Porta
+Romana, the Porta Camollia, the Porta Pespini. The oxen had been fed
+and left in their stalls; there was no ploughing in the fields on this
+day, no gathering of figs, no sound of singing voices and laughter in
+the vineyards. The brown wrinkled old men and women, the lithe,
+slender youths in their suits of black broadcloth--wood gods disguised
+by cheap tailoring--all had left their work and come many a mile along
+the dusty roads and across fields to the town for the dear Madonna's
+sake, and to see the Palio. The country girls had all new dresses for
+the _Ferragosto_ and they strutted in the Via Cavour like little
+pigeons pluming themselves in the sunshine. They were nearly all
+pretty, and the flapping hats of Tuscan straw half hid and half
+revealed charming curves of cheek and chin, little tip-tilted noses,
+soft brown eyes. Many of the townsfolk were out too on this day of
+days and the streets were crowded with gay, vociferous people. There
+was so much to see. The old picture-gallery was free to all, and the
+very beggars might go in to see the sly, pale, almond-eyed Byzantine
+Madonne in their gilt frames, and Sodoma's tormented Christ at the
+Pillar with the marks of French bullets in the plaster. All the
+palaces too were hung with arras, flags fluttered everywhere, church
+bells were ringing.
+
+Gemma passed down a side street and went a little out of her way to
+avoid the Piazza del Campo, but she had to cross the Via Ricasoli, and
+the crowd was so dense there that she was forced to stand on a
+doorstep for a while before she could get by.
+
+"What are they all staring at?" she asked impatiently of a woman near
+her.
+
+"It is the horse of the _Montone_! They are taking him to be blessed
+at the parish church."
+
+The poor animal was led by the _fantino_ who was to ride him in the
+race, and followed by the page. He was small and lean and grey, with
+outstanding ribs and the dry scar of an old wound on his flank. The
+people eyed him curiously. "An ugly beast!" "Yes, but you should see
+him run when the cognac is in him."
+
+Gemma began to be afraid that she would be late, and that He might
+find the door shut and go away again, and she pushed her way through
+the crowd and hurried down the Vicolo and into the house numbered
+thirteen. She was very breathless, being tightly laced and unused to
+so many stairs, and she stumbled a little as she crossed the
+threshold. She was glad to sit down on one of the chairs by the open
+window. The bare room no longer seemed conventual now that its
+unaccustomed air was stirred by the movement of her fan and tainted by
+the faint scent of her violet powder.
+
+Outside, in the market-place, the country women were sitting in the
+shade of their enormous red and blue striped umbrellas beside their
+stalls of fruit, while the people who came to buy moved to and fro
+from one to the other, beating down prices, chaffering eagerly with
+little cries of "_Per carita!_" and "_Dio mio!_" shrugging their
+shoulders, moving away, until at last the peasants would abate their
+price by one soldo. A clinking of coppers followed, and the green
+peaches and small black figs would be pushed into a string bag with a
+bit of meat wrapped in a back number of the _Vedetta Senese_, a half
+kilo of _pasta_, and perhaps a tiny packet of snuff from the shop
+where they sell salt and tobacco and picture postcards of the Pope and
+La Bella Otero.
+
+In the old days the scaffold and the gallows had been set up there,
+and the Street of the Dying had earned its name then, so many doomed
+wretches had passed down it from the Justice Hall and the prisons to
+the place of expiation. Weighed down by chains they had gone
+reluctantly, dragging their feet upon their last journey, trying to
+listen to the priest's droning of prayers, or to see some friendly
+face in the crowd.
+
+The memory of old sorrows and torments lay heavy sometimes here on
+those who had eyes to see and ears to hear the things of the past, and
+Olive was often pitifully aware of the Moribondi. Rain had streamed
+down their haggard faces, washing their tears away, the sun had shone
+upon them, dazzling their tired eyes as they turned the corner where
+the cobbler had his stall now, and came to the place from whence they
+might have their first glimpse of the scaffold. Poor frightened souls!
+But Gemma knew nothing of them, and she would have cared nothing if
+she had known. She was not imaginative, and her own ills and the
+present absorbed her, since now she heard the man's step upon the
+stair.
+
+"You have come then," she cried.
+
+He made no answer, but he put his arms about her, holding her close,
+and kissed her again and again.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+"Filippo! Let me go! Let me breathe, _carissimo_! I want to speak to
+you."
+
+He did not seem to hear her. He had drawn the long steel pins out of
+her hat and had thrown the pretty thing down on the floor, and the
+loosened coils of shining hair fell over his hands as his strong lips
+bruised the pale, flower-like curves of her mouth.
+
+Filippo had loved many women in the only way possible to him, and they
+had been won by his brutality and his insolence, and by the glamour of
+his name. The annals of mediaeval Italy were stained with blood and
+tears because of the Tor di Rocca, and their loves that ended always
+in cruelty and horror, and Filippo had all the instincts of his
+decadent race. In love he was pitiless; no impulses of tenderness or
+of chivalry restrained him, and his methods were primeval and violent.
+Probably the Rape of the Sabines was his ideal of courtship, but the
+subsequent domesticity, the settling down of the Romans with their
+stolen wives, would have been less to his taste.
+
+"Filippo!" Gemma cried again, and this time he let her go.
+
+"You may breathe for one minute," he said, looking at his watch.
+"There is not much time."
+
+He drew the chair towards the table and sat down. "Come!" he said
+imperatively, but she shook her head.
+
+"Ah, Filippo, I love you, but you must listen. Did you see my
+_fidanzato_ in our box at the theatre last night?"
+
+"Yes, and I am glad he is so ugly. I shall not be jealous. You must
+give me your address in Lucca," he said coolly.
+
+Her face fell. "You will let me marry him? You--you do not mind?"
+
+He made a grimace. "I do not like it, but I cannot help it."
+
+"But he makes me sick," she said tremulously. "I hate him to touch
+me."
+
+It seemed that her words lit some fire in him. His hot eyes sparkled
+as he stretched out his arms to her. "Ah, come to me now then."
+
+She stood still by the table watching him fearfully. "Filippo, I
+hoped--I thought you would take me away."
+
+"It is impossible. I cannot even see you again until after Christmas.
+It will be safer--better not. But in January I will come to Lucca, and
+then--"
+
+He hesitated, weighing his words, weighing his thought and his desire.
+
+"And then?" she said.
+
+He looked at her closely, deliberately, divining the beauty that was
+half hidden from him. Her parted lips were lovely, and the texture of
+her white skin was satin smooth as the petals of a rose; there was no
+fault in the pure oval of her face, in the line of her black brows. He
+could see no flaw in her now, and he believed that she would still
+seem unsurpassably fair after a lapse of time.
+
+"Then, if you still wish it, I will take you away. You shall have a
+villa at San Remo--"
+
+"I understand," she said hurriedly, and she covered her face with her
+hands.
+
+She had hoped to be the Princess Tor di Rocca, and he had offered to
+keep her still as his _amica_. Presently, if she wished it and it
+still suited him, he would set her feet on the way that led to the
+streets. "Then if you wish it--" To her the insult seemed to lie in
+the proposed delay. She loved him, and she had no love for virtue. She
+loved him, and if he had urged her to go with him on the instant she
+would have yielded easily. But she must await his convenience; next
+year, perhaps; and meanwhile she must go to Lucca, she must be married
+to the other man.
+
+She was crying, and tears oozed out between her fingers and dripped on
+the floor. "He is horrible to me," she said brokenly.
+
+Filippo rose then and came to her; he loved her in his way, and she
+moved him as no woman had done yet.
+
+"Why need you marry him? Do not. Wait for me here and I will surely
+come for you," he said as he drew her to him.
+
+She hid her face on his shoulder. "I dare not send him away," she
+whispered. "All Siena would laugh at me, and I should be ashamed to be
+seen. No other man would ever take me after such a scandal. Besides,
+you know I must be married. You know that, Filippo! And if you did not
+come--"
+
+"I shall come."
+
+She clung to him in silence for a while before she spoke again.
+
+"Why not until January?"
+
+"You will be good if I tell you?" he asked when he had kissed her.
+
+"Yes, yes; only hold me."
+
+"Gemma, you must know that I am poor. I have told you often how the
+palace in Florence is shabby, eaten up with moth and rust. The Villa
+at Certaldo is falling into ruins too. I am poor."
+
+"You have an automobile, servants, horses; you stay here at the best
+hotel."
+
+"I should not be poor for a _contadino_ but I am for a prince," he
+said impatiently and with emphasis. "Believe me, I want money, and I
+must have it. I cannot steal it or earn it, or win it in the lottery
+unfortunately, so I must marry it."
+
+She cowered down as though he had struck her, and made an effort to
+escape from him, but he held her fast. She tried to speak, but the
+pain in her throat prevented her from uttering an articulate sound.
+
+"Do not think of the woman," he said hurriedly. "You need not. I do
+not. Once I am married I shall go my own way, of course, but her
+father is in Naples now, and he is a tiresome old fool."
+
+"_Santissimo Dio!_" she gasped presently. "When--when--"
+
+"In December."
+
+"Is she beautiful?"
+
+He laughed as he gave the answer she hoped for. "She is an American,"
+he added, "and it sets one's teeth on edge to hear her trying to talk
+Italian. Her accent! She is a small dry thing like a grasshopper."
+
+"I wish she was dead."
+
+He set himself to soothe and comfort her, but it was not easy.
+
+"I might as well be ugly," she cried again and again.
+
+It was the simple expression of her defeat. The beauty she had held to
+be a shield against sorrow and a key to the garden of delights was but
+a poor thing after all. It had not availed her, and she had nothing
+else. She was stripped now, naked, alone and defenceless in a hard
+world.
+
+"_Carissima_, be still. Have patience. I love you, and I shall come
+for you," whispered Tor di Rocca, and she tried to believe him, and to
+persuade herself that the flame in his brown eyes would burn for her
+always.
+
+Slowly, as the passion of grief ebbed, the tide of love rose in her
+and flushed her wan, tear-stained face and made it beautiful. The
+door of the room was opened, but neither she nor the man heard it, or
+saw it closed again. It was their last hour, this bare room was their
+world and they were alone in it.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+The table was set for lunch out on the terrace where Astorre lay
+gazing upon his Tuscany, veiled in a shimmering haze of heat and
+crowned with August blue. The best coffee cups of majolica ware had
+been set out, and signora had made a _zabajone_ in honour of
+_Ferragosto_. It was meant to please Olive, who was childishly fond of
+its thick yellow sweetness, but she seemed restless and depressed;
+Astorre looked ill, and his mother's eyes were anxious as they dwelt
+on him, and so the dainty was eaten in silence, and passed away
+unhonoured and unsung as though it were humble pie or a funeral baked
+meat.
+
+Later in the afternoon, when the signora had gone to lie down, Astorre
+began to ask questions.
+
+"Is your face hot?"
+
+"Yes--no--what makes you think--"
+
+"You are flushed," he said bluntly, "and you will not meet my eyes.
+Why? Why?"
+
+"Don't ask," she answered. "I cannot tell you."
+
+The haggard, aquiline face changed and hardened. "Someone has been
+rude to you, or has frightened you."
+
+"No." She moved away to escape the inquisition of his eyes. "Some of
+these plants want water. I shall fetch some." She was going in when
+he called to her.
+
+"Olive," he said haltingly. "Perhaps we ought to have told you before.
+My mother heard of some people who want an English governess from a
+friend of hers who is a music mistress in Florence. They are rich and
+would pay well, and we should have told you when we heard of it, three
+days ago, but I could not bear the thought of your leaving Siena
+while--while I am still here. But if those people in the Piazza
+Tolomei are unkind--"
+
+She came back then and sat down beside him. "I do not want to leave
+Siena," she said gently.
+
+"Thank you," he answered, and added: "It will not be for long. Why
+should I pretend to you?" he went on. "I have suffered, but now I have
+no pain at all, only I am very weak. Look!"
+
+He held up his hand; it was yellowish white and so thin as to be
+almost transparent, and it seemed to Olive to be most pathetic because
+it was not very small or very finely made. It held the broken promise
+of power, she thought sorrowfully, and she stroked the outstretched
+palm gently as though it were a half-frozen bird that she would bring
+to life again.
+
+He closed his eyes, smiling. "Ah, your little fingers are soft and
+warm."
+
+"You were at the theatre last night," he said presently. "Fausto saw
+you. How do you like your cousin's _fidanzato_?"
+
+"Not at all."
+
+"Olive, do you know that they say strange things about the Odalisque?
+I am afraid there will be trouble if her Lucchese hears--"
+
+"I do not care to hear that nickname," she said coldly. "It is
+impertinent and absurd."
+
+"Oh, do not let go of my hand," he implored. "Keep on stroking it. I
+love it! I love it! If I were a cat you would hear me purring. Tell me
+about England and Shakespeare and Shelley. Anything. I will be good."
+
+"I--I have not brought the book I promised you. I would have fetched
+it on my way here, but--but I had not the key. I am sorry, _nino_.
+Yes, let us talk of nice things."
+
+She was quick to relent, and soon seemed to be herself again, and he
+kept his fever-bright eyes on her, watching her as in the old days men
+may have watched the stars as they waited for the dawn that was to see
+them pass by the Vicolo dei Moribondi.
+
+Soon, very soon, Signora Aurelia would come out to them, and she would
+stay beside her son while Olive went to put on her hat, and then they
+would say "_Addio_" and leave him. And perhaps he would indeed go to
+God, or to some place where he would see the dear ones no more. The
+boy's beautiful lips were shut close, but the grey eyes darkened and
+dilated painfully.
+
+"Astorre! Are you ill? Do not look so. Oh, I will not go to the
+Palio. I will stay with you."
+
+"No, you must go, and to-morrow you can tell me all about it. But will
+you kiss me now? Do."
+
+"You need not ask twice, dear Astorre," she whispered, as she leant
+over him and touched his forehead with her lips.
+
+"_Ma che!_" he said ungratefully. "That's nothing. Kiss me properly
+and at once."
+
+When the boy's mother came out on to the terrace a moment later
+Olive's blue eyes were full of tears and the rose flush of her cheeks
+had deepened, but she looked at her friend very kindly as she uttered
+the word he had been afraid to hear.
+
+"_Addio!_"
+
+The Piazza del Campo was crowded as the Signora Aurelia and Olive
+passed through it to their seats on the second best stand, and the
+_carabinieri_ were clearing the course. The thousands of people in the
+central space, who had been chewing melon seeds, fanning themselves,
+and talking vociferously as they waited, grew quieter, and all began
+to look one way towards the narrow street from whence the procession
+should appear.
+
+Olive sat wedged between Signora Aurelia and an old country priest
+whose shabby soutane was stained with the mud his housekeeper should
+have brushed off after the last rains, a fortnight before. He had a
+kind, worn face that smiled when Olive helped him put his cotton
+umbrella in a safe place between them.
+
+"I shall not need it yet," he said. "But there is a storm coming. Do
+you not feel the heaviness of the air, and the heat, _Dio mio_!"
+
+The deep bell of the Mangia tower tolled, and then the signal was
+given, _un colpo di mortaletto_, and the pageant began.
+
+Slowly they came, the grave, armoured knights riding with their visors
+up that all might see how well the tanner, Giovanni, and Enrico Lupi
+of the wine-shop, looked in chain mail; gay, velvet-clad pages
+carrying the silk-embroidered standards of their _contrade_ with all
+the fine airs of the lads who stand about the bier of Saint Catherine
+in Ghirlandaio's fresco in the Duomo; lithe, slender _alfieri_ tossing
+their flags, twisting them about in the carefully-concerted movements
+that look so easy and are so difficult, until the whole great Piazza
+was girdled with fluttering light and colour, while it echoed to the
+thrilling and disquieting beat of the drums. Each _contrada_ had its
+_tamburino_, and each _tamburino_ beat upon his drum incessantly until
+his arms tired and the sweat poured down his face.
+
+Olive's head began to ache, but she was excited and happy, enjoying
+the spectacle as a child enjoys its first pantomime, not thinking but
+feeling, and steeping her senses in the southern glow and gaiety that
+was all about her. For the moment her cousin's shame and sorrow, and
+her friend's pain seemed old, unhappy, far-off things, and she could
+not realise them here.
+
+The _contrada_ of the Oca was the last to go by; it was a favourite
+with the people because its colours were those of the Italian flag,
+red, white and green, and the Evvivas broke out as it passed. Olive's
+page, her cobbler's son, looked gravely up at her as he went by, and
+she smiled at him and was glad to see that he still wore the magnolia
+bud she had thrown him in his hood of parti-coloured silk.
+
+Presently they were all seated--the knights and pages with their
+standard-bearers and esquires--on their own stand in the place of
+honour before the great central gates of the Palazzo Pubblico.
+
+"Now the horses will run," explained the signora. "Many people like
+this part best, but I do not. Poor beasts! They are half drunk, and
+they are often hurt or killed. The _fantini_ lash at each other with
+their hide whips. Once I saw the _Montone_ strike the _Lupa_ just as
+they passed here; the crimson flashed out across his face, and in his
+pain he pulled his horse aside, and it fell heavily against the
+palings and threw him so that the horse of the _Bruco_ coming on
+behind could not avoid going over him. They said it was terrible to
+see that livid weal across his mouth as he lay in his coffin."
+
+"He died then?"
+
+"_Ma! Sicuro!_"
+
+Olive looked up at the window where the Menotti should have been, and
+saw strange faces there. They had not come then. They had not, and
+Astorre could not. Astorre was very ill ... the times were out of
+joint. Her cousin's shame and sorrow and her friend's pain seemed to
+come near again, and to be once more a part of her life, and she saw
+"gold tarnished, and the grey above the green." When the horses came
+clattering by, urged by their riders, maddened by the roar of the
+crowd, she tried to shut her eyes, but she could not. The horse of the
+_Dragone_ stumbled at the turn by San Martino and the rider was
+thrown, and another fell by the Chigi palace as they came round the
+second time. Olive covered her face with her hands. The thin, panting
+flanks, marked with half-healed scars and stained with sweat, the poor
+broken knees, the strained, suffering eyes ...
+
+"Are you ill, signorina?" the old priest asked kindly.
+
+"No, but the poor horses--I cannot look. Who has won?"
+
+He rose to his feet. "The _Oca_!" he cried excitedly. A great roar of
+voices acclaimed the favourite's victory, and when the spent horse
+came to a standstill the _fantino_ slipped off its back and was
+instantly surrounded by men and boys of his _contrada_, dancing and
+shouting with joy, kissing him on both cheeks, pulling him this way
+and that, until the _carabinieri_ came up and took him away amongst
+them.
+
+"The _Bruco_ hoped to win," the priest said, "and the _Oca's fantino_
+might get a knife in his back if he were not taken care of."
+
+Already the crowd was dispersing. The victorious _contrada_ had been
+given the painted standard of the Palio, and were bearing it in
+triumph to the parish church, where it would remain until the next
+_Ferragosto_. The others were going their separate ways, pages and
+_alfieri_ in silk doublets and parti-coloured hosen arm-in-arm with
+their friends in black broadcloth, standard-bearers smoking
+cigarettes, knights unhelmed and wiping heated brows with red cotton
+handkerchiefs.
+
+"I will go down the Via Ricasoli with you," Olive said.
+
+"It is I who should take you home."
+
+"Oh, I do not mind the crowd, and I know you are anxious to get back
+to Astorre."
+
+"Astorre--yes. Olive, you don't think he looks more delicate, do you?"
+
+The girl felt that she could not have answered truly if her life had
+depended on her veracity.
+
+"Oh, no," she said. "He is rather tired, I think. The heat tries him.
+He will be better later on."
+
+The poor mother seemed relieved.
+
+"You are right; he is always pale in the summer," she said, trying to
+persuade herself that it was so. "You will come to-morrow to tell him
+about the Palio?"
+
+"Yes, surely."
+
+There were to be fireworks later on at the Fortezza and illuminations
+of the Lizza gardens, so the human tide set that way and left the
+outlying parts of the city altogether. The quiet, tree-shadowed
+piazzetta before the church of Santa Maria dei Servi was quite
+deserted. Children played there in the mornings, and old men and women
+lingered there and sat on the wooden benches in the sun, but they were
+all away now; the bells had rung for the Ave Maria, the church doors
+were closed, and the sacristan had gone to his supper.
+
+A little mist had crept up from the valley; steep red roofs and old
+walls that had glowed in the sun's last rays were shadowed as the
+light waned, and black clouds came up from the horizon and blotted out
+the stars.
+
+"Go home quickly now, Olive. There will be a storm. The poor mad
+people will howl to-night in the Manicomio. I hear them sometimes when
+I am lying awake. Good-night, my dear."
+
+"Good-night."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+Olive was tired, and now that she was alone she knew that she was also
+a little afraid, so that she lingered on the way and went slowly up
+the stairs of the house in the Piazza Tolomei. Carmela answered her
+ring at the bell; her face was swollen and her eyes were red with
+crying, and the little lamp she carried shook in her hand.
+
+"Oh, Olive," she said, "Orazio says he will not marry her. He has
+heard such things about her from his friends, and even in the Cafe
+Greco.... It is a scandal."
+
+She put her lamp down on the floor, and took out her handkerchief to
+wipe away the tears that were running down her cheeks.
+
+Olive came in and shut the door after her.
+
+"Where is he?"
+
+"They are all in the dining-room. Aunt sent Carolina out for the
+evening, and it is a good thing, because of course in the kitchen she
+could hear everything. He sent a message to say he could not go to the
+Palio, and Gemma's head ached when she came back from church, so we
+all stayed in. He came half an hour ago--"
+
+"What does Gemma say?"
+
+"Nothing. She looks like a stone."
+
+"I must go through the dining-room to get to my room," Olive said
+uncertainly. "What shall I do? Pass through very quickly or wait here
+in the passage?"
+
+"Better go in," advised Carmela. "They may not even notice you. He
+keeps on talking so loudly, and aunt and Maria are crying."
+
+"Poor things! I am so sorry!"
+
+The two girls clung together for a moment, and Olive's eyes filled
+with tears as she kissed her cousin's poor trembling lips. Then
+Carmela stooped to pick up her lamp and put it out, and they went on
+together down the passage.
+
+The lamp was lit on the table that Carolina had laid for supper before
+she went out, and the Menotti sat in their accustomed places as though
+they were at a meal. Orazio Lucis was walking to and fro and
+gesticulating. His boots creaked, and the noise they made grated on
+the women's nerves as he talked loudly and incessantly, and they
+listened. Maria kept her face hidden in her hands, but Gemma held
+herself erect as ever, and she did not move when the two girls came
+in, though her sombre eyes were full of shame.
+
+"What shall I say to my friends in Lucca?" raved Orazio. "What shall I
+say to my mother? Even if I still consented to marry you she would not
+permit it; she would refuse to live in the same house with such a
+person--and she would be right. _Mamma mia!_ She is always right. She
+said, 'The girl is beautiful, but she has no money, and I tell you to
+think twice.' I have been trapped here by all you women. You all
+knew."
+
+He pointed an accusing finger at Signora Carosi. She sobbed
+helplessly, bitterly, as she tried to answer him, and Olive, who had
+waited in the shadow by the door, hoping that he would move on and
+enable her to pass into her own room, came forward and stood beside
+her aunt. She had thought she would feel abashed before this man who
+had been wronged, but he had made her angry instead, and now she would
+not have left the room if he had asked her, or have told him the truth
+if he had begged for it.
+
+"Many girls have been offered me," he went on excitedly, "but I would
+not hear of them because you were beautiful, and I thought you would
+make a good wife. There was Annina Giannini; she had five thousand
+lire, and more to come, and now she is married to a doctor in Lucca. I
+gave her up for you, and you are dust of the streets."
+
+Gemma flinched then as though he had struck her. The insult was
+flagrant, and it was time to make an end. She rose from her chair
+slowly, as though she were very tired, and filled her glass from the
+decanter on the table with a hand that trembled so that half the wine
+was spilled.
+
+"Orazio," she said, and her dark eyes sought his and held them so that
+he was compelled to stand still looking at her. "Orazio, I hope you
+and your ugly fool of a mother will die slowly of a horrible disease,
+and be tormented in hell for ever. May your flesh be covered with
+sores while your bones rot and are gnawed by worms. _Cosi sia!_"
+
+She crossed herself devoutly, and then drank some of the wine and
+flung the glass over her shoulder. It fell to the floor and crashed to
+splinters.
+
+The man's jaw dropped and his mouth fell open, but he had no words to
+answer her. She made a curious movement with her hands as though she
+would cleanse them of some impurity, and then turned and went quickly
+into her own room. They all heard the bolts drawn and the key turned
+in the lock.
+
+Olive was the first to speak, and her voice sounded strange and
+unnatural to herself.
+
+"She has said her say and left us, Signor Lucis. Will you not go too?
+You will not marry her. _Benissimo!_ We wish you good-evening."
+
+"You are very easy, signorina _mia_," he answered resentfully; "but I
+cannot forgive."
+
+"Who asked your forgiveness?" she retorted. "It is you who should beg
+our pardon--you, who are so ready to believe the tales that are told
+in the _cafes_ and to come here to abuse helpless women. You are a
+coward, signore. Oh, how I hate men ... Judges in Israel ... I would
+have them stoned first. _What's that?_"
+
+There was shouting in the street, and then a loud knocking on the
+house door. The women looked at each other with frightened eyes.
+
+"What is it?"
+
+Carmela ran to Gemma's door and shook the handle, calling to her to
+come out. There was no answer, and perhaps they had a dreadful
+premonition of the truth even then; Olive left them huddled together
+like frightened sheep. The knocking still continued, and it sounded
+very loud when she came out of the flat on to the stairs. She was
+beside herself; that is, she was aware of two Olives, one who spoke in
+a strange voice and trembled, and was now going down into the
+darkness, stumbling at nearly every step and moaning incoherent
+prayers to God, and one who watched and listened and was surprised at
+what was said and done.
+
+When she opened the great house door a man stood aside to let her come
+out. She looked at him and knew him to be one of the neighbours, and
+she wondered why he had run out into the street in his shirt-sleeves.
+He was pale, too, and looked ill, and he seemed to want to speak to
+her, but she could not listen.
+
+A crowd had collected about something that was lying on the pavement
+near their house wall; Olive looked up and saw Gemma's window opened
+wide, and then she knew what it was. The people made way for her and
+let her come to where the dead thing lay on its back with the knees
+drawn up. Some woman had already covered the face with a handkerchief,
+and dark blood was oozing out from under it. Olive crouched down
+beside its pitiful disarray.
+
+"Will someone help me carry her into the house?" she said.
+
+No one answered her, and after a while she spoke again.
+
+"Will someone fetch a doctor quickly?"
+
+"It is useless, _figlia mia_; she is dead."
+
+"At least"--her voice broke, and she had to begin again, making a
+painful effort to control the words that she might be quite
+intelligible--"at least help me to carry her in from the street. Is
+there no Christian here?"
+
+Two _carabinieri_ came running up now, and they made the people stand
+back so that a space of pavement was left clear; the younger man spoke
+to Olive.
+
+"We cannot move the body until the authorities come, signorina. It
+must stay where it is, but we shall guard it and keep the people off,
+and you can fetch a sheet from the house to cover it."
+
+"Oh, God!" she said, "when will they come?"
+
+He slightly shrugged his shoulders.
+
+"I do not know. We have sent to tell them. In a few minutes, perhaps,
+or in two hours, three hours."
+
+"And we must leave her here?"
+
+"Yes, signorina."
+
+"I will get the sheet."
+
+He helped her to rise from her knees. Looking down she saw a stain of
+blood on her skirt, and she clung to his arm for a moment, swaying as
+though she would fall. There was a murmur among the people of pity and
+sympathy. "_Poveretta! Che disgrazia!_"
+
+"_Coraggio!_" the _carabiniere_ said gently.
+
+Up again, up all the dark stairs, wondering if the others knew and
+were afraid to come down, wondering if there had been much pain,
+wondering if it was not all a dreadful dream from which she must wake
+presently. They knew.
+
+The younger girl met her cousin at the door; Maria had fainted, and
+_la zia_ was hysterical; as to Orazio, he was sitting on the sofa
+crying, with his mean, mouse-coloured head buried in the cushions.
+
+"I looked out of your bedroom window as I could not get into her
+room," whispered Carmela. "Oh, Olive, what shall we do?"
+
+"I am going to take down a sheet as they will not let us bring her in.
+You can come with me, and we will stay beside her and say prayers."
+
+"Yes, yes. Oh, Olive, that is a good idea."
+
+The two came out into the street together and spread the white linen
+covering carefully over the stark body before they knelt, one on each
+side. Of the thousands who had filled the Piazzale at sunset hundreds
+came now to see them mourning the broken thing that lay between.
+Olive was aware of many faces, of the murmuring of a great crowd, and
+shame was added to the horror that held her fast. She folded her hands
+and tried to keep her eyes fixed upon them. Then she began to pray
+aloud.
+
+"_Pater noster, qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum--_"
+
+The clear voice was tremulous at first, but it gathered strength as it
+went on, and Carmela said the words too. The men in the crowd
+uncovered, and the women crossed themselves.
+
+Rain was falling now, slowly at first and in heavy drops that splashed
+upon the stones, and there was a threatening sound--a rumbling of
+thunder--away in the south.
+
+Olive knew no more prayers in Latin, but her cousin began the
+Miserere.
+
+"_Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam, et secundum
+multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam._"
+
+Among the many who had come to look their last upon the Odalisque were
+men who had made free with her poor name, had been unsparing in their
+utterance of the truth concerning her and ready to drag her down, and
+some of these moved away now shamefacedly, but more stayed, and one
+after another took up the words.
+
+"_Amplius lava me ab iniquitate mea: et a peccato meo munda me._"
+
+Gemma herself had trodden out the fire that consumed her, but who
+could dare say of the grey cold ashes, "These are altogether vile."
+
+"_Tibi soli peccavi, et malum coram te feci: ut justificeris in
+sermonibus tuis et vincas cum judicaris._"
+
+She had sinned, and she had been punished; she had suffered fear and
+shame.
+
+"_Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor, lavabis me, et super nivem
+dealbabor._"
+
+There had been some taint in her blood, some flaw in her will.
+
+"_Cor mundum crea in me, Deus, et spiritum rectum innova in visceribus
+meis._"
+
+A dark-eyed slender boy, wearing the green and white and scarlet of
+his _contrade_, pushed his way to the front presently. It was Romeo,
+and he carried a great bunch of magnolia blossoms.
+
+"Oh, signorina," he said, half crying, "the _alfieri_ and I wanted to
+give you these because you brought us good luck so that we won the
+Palio. I little thought--"
+
+He stopped short, hesitating, and afraid to come nearer. He thought
+she looked like one of the stone angels that kneel on the sculptured
+tombs in the Campo Santo; her face seemed rough hewn in the harsh
+white glare of the electric light, so deep were the shadows under her
+eyes and the lines of pain about the praying lips. His heart ached
+with pity for her.
+
+"Give them to me," she said, and he was allowed to come into the space
+that the _carabiniere_ kept clear.
+
+He thrust the bunch hurriedly into her hands, faltering, "_Dio vi
+benedica_."
+
+"_Andatevi con Dio_," she replied, and then laid the pale flowers and
+the shimmering green crown of leaves down upon the still breast.
+"Gemma, if ever I hurt you, forgive me now!"
+
+It was raining heavily, and as the sheet grew damp it clung more
+closely to the body of the girl who lay there with arms outstretched
+and knees drawn up as though she were nailed to a cross.
+
+The boy still lingered. "You will be drenched. Go into the house," he
+urged. Then, seeing he could not move her, he took off his velvet
+embroidered cloak and put it about her shoulders. A woman in the crowd
+came forward with a shawl for Carmela.
+
+So the hours passed.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK II.--FLORENCE
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+October can be cold enough sometimes in the Val d'Arno when the snow
+falls on the Apennines, and the woods of Vallombrosa are sere, and
+Florence, the flower city, lies then at the mercy of the winds. Mamie
+Whittaker, who, in her own phrase, "hated to be blown about anyhow,"
+had not been out all day. She lolled in an armchair before a crackling
+fire of olive wood in the room that she "lit with herself when alone,"
+though scarcely in the Tennysonian sense. Hers was a vivid
+personality, and older women who disliked her called her flamboyant,
+and referred to an evident touch of the tar-brush that would make her
+socially impossible in America though it passed unnoticed in Italy.
+Her age was seventeen, and she dressed after Carmen to please herself,
+and read Gyp with the same intention. She was absorbed now in _Les
+Amoureux_, and had to be told twice that her cousin had come before
+she would look up.
+
+"Miss Marvel? Show her in."
+
+She rose and went forward to greet her relative, whom she had not
+seen for some years, and the two met at the door and kissed each other
+with enthusiasm.
+
+"Edna! My! Well, you have not grown anyway. What a tiny thing! Come
+and sit down right here." She rang for tea while her visitor slowly
+and rather shyly divested herself of her sables and laid them on a
+side table. Edna Marvel was the elder of the two by three years, but
+she was so small that she seemed a mere child. Her sallow little face
+resembled that of a tired monkey, yet it had an elfin charm, and her
+hands were beautiful as carved toys of ivory made in the East for a
+king's son to play with. They might hold a man's heart perhaps, but
+Mamie did not notice them, her own allurements being of more obvious
+description.
+
+She thought Edna was real homely, and her spirits rose accordingly.
+"Where are you staying?"
+
+"At the Bristol. Poppa guessed we would take a villa later on if we
+felt like it."
+
+Mamie rang again. "Bring some more cakes, and tell Miss Agar to come
+and pour out the tea."
+
+"Who is Miss Agar?"
+
+"My companion, a sort of governess person. She takes me out walks, and
+sits by when my music-master comes, and so forth. She is new, and she
+won't do, but I may as well make her useful while she stays."
+
+"Why won't she do?"
+
+"Oh, she just won't. Momma don't like her much, and I'm not singing
+her praises."
+
+Edna looked curiously at the slender girl in the black dress who came
+in and took her place at the table.
+
+She said "Good afternoon" in her pleasant little voice.
+
+The governess person seemed rather surprised that she should address
+her.
+
+"Good afternoon," she replied. "Do you take milk and sugar?"
+
+"Bring them round for us to help ourselves," dictated Mamie.
+
+Olive only smiled as she repeated her question, but Edna was
+distressed at her cousin's rudeness, and her sensitive face was quite
+pink as she hurriedly declined sugar. She came to the table to fetch
+her cup, but Miss Whittaker waited for hers to be brought to her.
+
+"How do you like this room, Edna? I had it fixed up for myself, and
+everything in it is mine." She looked complacently up at the hangings
+of primrose silk that hid the fifteenth century frescoes on the walls.
+
+Her cousin hesitated. "I guess it must have cost some."
+
+"Yes. The Marchese does not like it. He is so set on his worm-eaten
+old tapestries and carved chairs, and he wanted momma to refurnish the
+palace to match, but not she! Louis Quinze, she said, and Louis
+Quinze it is, more or less. I tell the Marchese that if he is so fond
+of the musty Middle Ages he ought to go about in armour himself by
+rights. But the old sinner is not really a bit romantic."
+
+It occurred to Olive that the right kind of governess would utter a
+word in season. "It is not usual for young girls to refer to their
+stepfathers as you do," she said drily.
+
+"Wait until you know mine better," Mamie answered unabashed. "Last
+night he said your complexion was miraculous. Next thing he'll try if
+it comes off. Are you coming to dinner to-night, Edna?"
+
+"Yes, auntie asked us. The--the Prince will be here, won't he?"
+
+Mamie looked down her nose. "Oh, yes," she said carelessly. "Your beau
+will come. People generally do when we ask them. The food is all
+right, and we have real good music afterwards sometimes. You know
+Avenel stays in Florence whiles because his brother has a Villa at
+Settignano. Well, momma guessed she would get him to play here for
+nothing once. Of course she was willing to pay any money for him
+really, but she just thought she would try it on. She asked him to
+dinner with a lot of other people, and made him take her in, though
+there were two Neapolitan dukes among the guests. The food was
+first-rate; she had told the cook to do his best, and she really
+thought the _entree_ would have made Vitellius sit up. It was
+perfect. Well, afterwards she asked Avenel to play, and he just smiled
+and said he could not. Why, she said, he gave a recital the day before
+for nothing, for a charity, and played the people's souls out of their
+bodies, made them act crazy, as he always does. Couldn't he play for
+friendship? No, he said, he couldn't just then because one must be
+filled with sorrow oneself before one can make others feel, and he
+inferred that he had no room even for regret. 'I play Chopin on a
+biscuit,' he said."
+
+"He must be rather a pig," was Edna's comment.
+
+"Not a bit of it. Momma said he really had not eaten much; in fact she
+had noticed that he left a bit of that lovely _entree_. Perhaps he is
+afraid of getting fat. Momma was real mad with him."
+
+Olive's cheeks were flushed and her hands trembled as she arranged the
+cups on the tray. She was thankful for the shelter afforded by the
+great silver tea-pot. Mamie's back was turned to her, but Edna seemed
+desirous of including her in the conversation.
+
+"Have you heard Avenel, Miss Agar?" she asked presently in her gentle,
+drawling way.
+
+"No. Is he very famous? I have never heard of him as a pianist."
+
+"Oh, his professional name is Meryon, of course. He is billed as that
+and known all the world over, though he only began to play in public
+three years ago when his wife left him. She was always a horrid woman,
+and she made him marry her when he was quite a boy, they say. They say
+he plays to forget things as other men take to drink. He has been
+twice to New York, and I know a girl who says he gave her a lock of
+his hair, but I don't believe her. It is dark brown, almost black, but
+I guess she cut it off a switch. He's not that kind."
+
+Olive said nothing.
+
+"You need not stay if you don't want to," Mamie said unceremoniously.
+"Be ready to come down after dinner. I might want you to play my
+accompaniments."
+
+"I can't think why you say she won't do," cried Edna when she was gone
+out of the room. "I call her perfectly sweet. Rather sad-looking, but
+just lovely."
+
+Mamie sniffed. "Glad you admire her," she said.
+
+The governess was expected to appear at luncheon, but dinner was
+served to her in her own room, where she must sit in solitary state,
+dressed in her best and waiting for a summons, until eleven o'clock,
+when she might assume that she would not be wanted and go to bed. This
+evening Olive lingered rather anxiously over her dressing, trying to
+make the best of herself, since it seemed that she was really to come
+down to-night into the yellow drawing-room where she spent so many
+weary hours of a morning listening to Mamie scraping her Strad while
+the German who was supposed to teach her possessed his soul in
+patience. She put on her black silk dress. It was a guinea robe bought
+at a sale in Oxford Street the year before, a reach-me-down garment
+for women to sneer at and men to describe vaguely as something dark,
+and she hated the poor thing.
+
+Most women believe that the men who like them in cotton frocks would
+adore them in cloth of gold, and are convinced that the secret of
+Cleopatra's charm lay in her extensive wardrobe.
+
+Avenel. It had shocked Olive to hear his name uttered by alien lips,
+as it hurt her to suppose that he came often to the Palazzo Lorenzoni.
+She would not suppose it, and, indeed, nothing that Mamie had said
+could lead her to think that he was a friend of the family. They had
+clutched at him greedily, and he had repaid with an impertinence. That
+was all.
+
+The third footman, whose duty it was to attend upon her, brought two
+covered dishes on a tray at eight o'clock, and soon after nine he came
+again to fetch her.
+
+There was a superabundance of gorgeous lackeys in the corridors that
+had been dusty and deserted five years before, and a gigantic _Suisse_
+stood always on guard now outside the palace gates. The Marchesa would
+have liked to have had outriders in her scarlet livery when she went
+out driving in the streets of Florence, but her husband warned her
+that some mad anarchist might take her for the Queen, and so she
+contented herself with a red racing motor. The millions old Whittaker
+had made availed to keep his widow and the man who had given her a
+title in almost regal state. They entertained largely, and the Via
+Tornabuoni was often blocked with the carriages and motors that
+brought their guests. Olive, sitting alone in her chilly bedroom,
+mending her stockings or trying to read, heard voices and laughter as
+the doors opened--harsh Florentine and high English voices, and the
+shrill sounds of American mirth--night after night. But the Lorenzoni
+dined _en famille_ sometimes, as even marquises and millionaires may
+do, and there were but two shirt-fronts and comparatively few diamonds
+in the great golden shining room when she entered it.
+
+The Marchesa, handsome, hard-featured, gorgeous in grey and silver,
+did not choose to notice her daughter's governess; she was deep in
+talk with her brother-in-law; but men could not help looking at Olive.
+Mr Marvel stood up and bowed as she passed, and the silent, saturnine
+Marchese stared. His black eyes were intent upon her as she came to
+the piano where Mamie was restlessly turning over the music, and no
+one watching him could fail to see that he was making comparisons
+that were probably to the disadvantage of his step-daughter.
+
+Fast men are not necessarily fond of the patchouli atmosphere in their
+own homes, and somehow Mamie seemed to reek of that scent, though in
+fact she never used it. She was clever and fairly well educated, and
+she had always been sheltered and cared for, but she was born to the
+scarlet, and everything she said and did, her way of walking, the use
+she made already of her black eyes, proclaimed it. To-night, though
+she wore the red she loved--a wonderful, flaring frock of chiffon
+frills and flounces--she looked ill, and her dark face was sullen.
+
+"The beastly wind has given me a stiff neck," she complained. "Here, I
+want to have this."
+
+She chose a coon's lullaby out of the pile of songs, and Olive sat
+down obediently and began the accompaniment. It was a pretty little
+ditty of the usual moony order, and Mamie sang it well enough. Mr
+Marvel looked up when it was over to say, "Thank you, my dear. Very
+nice."
+
+"It is a silly thing," Mamie answered ungraciously. "I'll sing you a
+_canzonetta_ now."
+
+She turned over the music, scattering marches and sonatas, and
+throwing some of them on the floor in her impatience. Olive, wondering
+at her temper, presently divined the cause of it. The folding doors
+that led into the library were half closed. No lamps, but a flicker of
+firelight and the hush of lowered voices, Edna's pleasant little pipe
+and a man's brief, murmured answers, and there were short spaces of
+silence too. The American girl and her prince were there.
+
+The Marchese had raised his eyebrows at the first words of the
+_canzonetta_, and at the end of the second verse he was smiling
+broadly.
+
+"Little devil!" he said.
+
+No one heard him. His wife was showing her brother-in-law some of her
+most treasured bits of china. She was quite calm, as though her
+knowledge of Italian was fair the Neapolitan dialect was beyond her.
+Mr Marvel, of course, knew not a syllable of any language but his own,
+and the slang of Southern gutters was as Greek to Olive. Their
+placidity amused the Marchese, and so did the thought of the little
+scene that he knew was being enacted in the library.
+
+"Shall we join the others now, Edna, _carissima_?"
+
+"If--if you like."
+
+He nearly laughed aloud as he saw the silk curtains drawn. The Prince
+stood aside to allow Edna to pass in first, and Olive, glancing up
+momentarily from the unfamiliar notes, saw the green gleam of an
+emerald on the strong brown hand as the brocaded folds were lifted
+up. Her own hands swerved, blundered, and she perpetrated a hopeless
+discord.
+
+"I beg your pardon," she said confusedly.
+
+Mamie shrugged her shoulders. "Never mind," she answered lightly. "The
+last verse don't matter anyway. Come to here, Edna. Momma wants to
+hear your fiddle-playing."
+
+"Yes, play us something, my dear."
+
+The little girl came forward shyly.
+
+As the Prince and the Marchese stood together by the fireplace at the
+other end of the long room Mamie joined them. "You sang that devil's
+nocturne inimitably," observed her stepfather, drily. "I am quite
+sorry to have to ask you not to do it again."
+
+"Not again? Why not?"
+
+She perched herself on the arm of one of the great gilt chairs. The
+Prince raised his eyes from the thoughtful contemplation of her ankles
+to stare at her impudent red parted lips.
+
+"Why not! Need I explain, _cara_? It was delicious; I enjoyed it, but,
+alas!" He heaved an exaggerated sigh and then laughed, and the young
+man and the girl shared in his merriment.
+
+"I am sorry to make so many mistakes," Olive said apologetically as
+she laboured away at her part of an easy piece arranged for violin and
+piano.
+
+"Oh, it is nothing. I have made ever so many myself, and I ought to
+have turned the page for you."
+
+The gentle voice was rather tremulous.
+
+"That was charming," pronounced the Marchesa. "Now that sonata, Edna.
+I am so fond of it."
+
+"Very well, auntie."
+
+The Prince had gone into the billiard-room with his host, and Mamie
+was with them. They were knocking the balls about and laughing ...
+laughing.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+In the Cascine gardens the lush green grass of the glades was strewn
+with leaves; soon the branches would be bare, or veiled only in winter
+mists, and the Arno, swollen with rain, ran yellow as Tiber. It was
+not a day for music, but the sun shone, and many idle Florentines
+drove, or rode, or walked by the Lung'Arno to the Rajah's monument,
+passing and repassing the bench where Olive sat with Madame de
+Sariviere's stout and elderly German Fraeulein. Mamie was not far away;
+flamboyant as ever in her frock of crimson serge, her black curls tied
+with ribbon and streaming in the wind, she was the loud centre of a
+group of girls who played some running game to an accompaniment of
+shrill cries and little screams of laughter.
+
+"Do you like young girls?" Olive asked the question impulsively, after
+a long silence.
+
+"I am fond of my pupils; they are good little things, rather foolish,
+but amiable. But I understand your feeling, my poor Miss Agar. Your
+charge is--"
+
+Olive hesitated. "It is a difficult age; and she has the body of
+twenty and the sense of ten. I am putting it very badly, but--but I
+was hateful years ago too. I think one always is, perhaps. I remember
+at school there were self-righteous little girls; they were narrow and
+intolerant, easily shocked, and rather bad-tempered. The others were
+absurdly vain, sentimental, sly. All that comes away afterwards if one
+is going to be nice."
+
+"They are female but not yet womanly. The newly-awakened instincts
+clamour at first for a hearing; later they learn to wait in silence,
+to efface themselves, to die, even," answered the Fraeulein, gravely.
+
+A victoria passed, then some youths on bicycles, shouting to each
+other and ringing their bells. They were riding all together, but they
+scattered to let Prince Tor di Rocca go by. He was driving tandem, and
+his horses were very fresh. Edna was with him, her small wan face
+rather set in its halo of ashen blonde hair and pale against the rich
+brown of her sables.
+
+When they came by the second time Mamie called to her cousin. The
+Prince drew rein, and the groom sprang down and ran to the leader's
+head.
+
+"My, Edna, how cold you look! It's three days since I saw you, but I
+guess Don Filippo has been doing the honours. Have you seen all the
+old galleries and things? Momma said she noticed you and uncle in a
+box at the Pergola last night."
+
+She stood by the wheel, and as she looked up, not at Edna but at the
+Prince, he glanced smilingly down at her and then away again.
+
+"We are going back to the hotel now," Edna said. "Will you come and
+have tea, Mamie? Is that Miss Agar over there? Ask her if you may, and
+if she will come too."
+
+"I don't need to ask her," the girl answered, but she went back
+nevertheless and spoke to Olive.
+
+"Can the groom take the cart home, Filippo? We will walk back with
+them."
+
+"Yes, Bellina is in spirits, but she will not run away from Giovanni,"
+he said, trying not to seem surprised that she should curtail their
+drive.
+
+They crossed the wide gravelled space outside the gardens and walked
+towards the town by the Lung'Arno. Already the cypresses of San
+Miniato showed black against the sky, and the reflected flame of
+sunset was dying out in the windows of the old houses at the river's
+edge. All the people were going one way now, and leaving the
+tree-shadowed dusk for the brightly-lit streets, Via Tornabuoni, all
+palaces and antiquity shops, and Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, where the
+band would play presently.
+
+The two American girls walked together with Don Filippo and Olive
+followed them. Edna held herself very erect, but Mamie seemed almost
+to lean backwards. She swayed her hips as she went and swung her short
+skirts, and there was affectation and a feverish self-consciousness in
+her every movement. Olive could not help smiling to herself, but she
+remembered that at school she had been afflicted with the idea that a
+pout--the delicious _moue_ of fiction--became her, and so she was
+inclined to leniency. Only seventeen.
+
+The Prince wore riding gloves, and so the green gleam of his emerald
+was hidden from her. If only she could be sure that she had seen him
+before. What then? Nothing--if she could think that he would always be
+kind to gentle little Edna.
+
+Just before they reached the hotel Miss Marvel joined her, leaving her
+cousin to go on with Don Filippo, and began to talk to her.
+
+"The river is just perfect at this hour. Our sitting-room has a
+balcony and I sat there last night watching the moon rise over San
+Miniato. I guess it looked just that way when Dante wrote his sonnets.
+Beatrice must have been real mad with him sometimes, don't you think
+so? She must have been longing to say, 'Come on, and don't keep
+talking.' But she was a nice high-minded girl, and so she never did.
+She simply died."
+
+"If she died for him she must have been a fool," Olive said shortly.
+Her eyes were fixed on the Prince's broad back. He was laughing at
+some sally of Mamie's.
+
+Edna was shocked. "Don't you just worship Dante?"
+
+"Yes, yes," answered the elder girl. "He was a dear, but even he was
+not worth that. At least, I don't know. He was a dear; but I was
+thinking of a girl I knew ... perhaps I may tell you about her some
+day."
+
+"Yes, do," Edna said perfunctorily. She was trying to hear what her
+cousin was saying to Filippo, and wishing she could amuse him as well.
+They passed through the wide hall of the hotel and went up in the
+lift. The Marvels' private sitting-room was on the second floor. They
+were much too rich to condescend to the palms and bamboo tables and
+wicker chairs of the common herd, and tea was served to Edna and her
+guests in a green and white boudoir that was, as the Marchesa might
+have said, more or less Louis Seize.
+
+Mr Marvel came in presently, refusing tea, but asking leave to smoke,
+and the Prince, gracefully deferential to his future father-in-law,
+listened to the little he had to say, answering carefully in his
+perfect English.
+
+"Yes, sir. There is a great deal of poverty here. On my Tuscan estates
+too. Alas! yes."
+
+Mamie sat near him, and in the flickering red light of the fire she
+looked almost pretty. Filippo's eyes strayed towards her now and then.
+Edna came presently to where Olive rested apart on the wide cushioned
+window-seat. "Will you have some more tea?"
+
+"No, thank you. I think we must be going soon. The Marchesa will not
+like it if we stay out too long."
+
+Edna hesitated. "I wanted to ask you a silly question. Had you ever
+seen the Prince before last week?"
+
+There was the slightest perceptible pause before Olive answered, "No,
+never. Why do you ask?"
+
+"I thought you looked as if you had somehow that night at the
+Lorenzoni palace. When we came in you were at the piano, and I thought
+you looked queer--as if--"
+
+"Oh, no," Olive said again, but she wondered afterwards if she had
+done right.
+
+On their way home Mamie drew her attention to a poster, and she saw
+the name of Meryon in great orange letters on a white ground.
+
+"He will be here before Christmas. I'll let you come with me to hear
+him play if you are good," she said, and she took the elder girl's
+hand in hers and pinched it. "I could race you home down this side
+street, but I suppose I must not."
+
+She was gay and good-humoured now, and altogether at her best, and
+Olive tried hard to like her, but she could not help seeing that the
+triumph that overflowed in easy, shallow kindness was an unworthy one.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+Olive sat alone at the end of one of the tiers of the stone
+amphitheatre built into the hill that rises, ilex clad, to the heights
+of San Giorgio. Some other women were there, mothers with young
+children, nurses and governesses dowdily dressed as she was in
+dark-coloured stuffs, but she knew none of them.
+
+Mamie seldom cared to come to the old Boboli gardens. Its green
+mildewed terraces and crumbling deities of fountain and ilex grove had
+no charm for her, and as a rule she and her friends preferred the
+crowded Lung'Arno and Cascine on the days when there was music, but
+this Thursday she had suggested that they should come across the
+river.
+
+"Daisy Vereker has promised to meet me, and as she is only here a week
+on her way to school in Paris I should hate to disappoint her."
+
+The two girls were lingering now about the grass arena, talking
+volubly, whispering, giggling. Miss Vereker's maid, a yellow-haired
+Swiss, sat not far off with her knitting, and every now and then she
+called harshly to her charge to know the time.
+
+Olive sat very still, her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on the far
+horizon. She loved the old-world silence that was only broken by the
+dripping of water in the pools. No birds sang here, no leaves fell at
+the waning of the year. The seasons had little power over stained
+marble and moss, cypress, and ilex and olive, and as spring brought no
+riot of green and rose and gold in flower, so autumn took nothing
+away. Surely there were ghosts in the shadowed avenues, flitting in
+and out among the trees, joining hands to dance "_la ronde_" about the
+pool of Neptune. Gay abbes, cavaliers, beautiful ladies of the late
+Renaissance, red-heeled, painted, powdered; frail, degenerate children
+of the hard-headed old Florentine citizens pictured in the frescoes of
+Giotto and Masaccio. No greater shades could come to Boboli.
+
+Florence was half hidden by the great yellow bulk of the Pitti palace,
+but Olive could see the slender, exquisite white and rose tower of
+Giotto, and the mellowed red of the cathedral's dome against the faint
+purple of the hills beyond Fiesole, and she looked at them in
+preference to the contorted river gods and exuberant nymphs of the
+fountain in the royal courtyard close by.
+
+After a while she opened her book and began to read. Presently she
+shivered; her jacket was thin, and the air grew chilly as the
+afternoon waned, but her reading absorbed her and she was surprised,
+when at last she raised her eyes, to see that the Pitti palace was
+already dark against the sky. Nurses and children were making their
+way out, and soon those who lingered would hear stentorian shouts from
+the gardeners, "_Ora si chiude!_" and they too would leave by one or
+other of the gates.
+
+Olive climbed down into the arena. Mamie was nowhere in sight, and
+Daisy Vereker and her maid were gone too. Olive, thinking that perhaps
+they might have gone up to the fountain of Neptune, began to climb the
+hill. She asked an old man who was coming down from there if he had
+seen two young ladies, one dressed in red.
+
+"No, signorina."
+
+She hurried back to the arena and spoke to a woman there. "Have you
+seen a young lady in red with black curls?"
+
+She answered readily: "_Sicuro!_ She went towards the Porta Romana
+half an hour ago. I think the other signorina was leaving and she
+wished to accompany her a part of the way. There was an older person
+with them."
+
+Olive's relief was only momentary; it sounded well, but one might walk
+to the Porta Romana and back twice in the time. Soon the gates would
+be closed, and if she had not found Mamie then, and the gardeners made
+her leave with the others, what should she do? She suspected a trick.
+The girl had a mischievous and impish humour that delighted in the
+infliction of small hurts, and she might have gone home, happy in the
+thought that her governess would get a "wigging," or she might be
+hiding about somewhere to give her a fright.
+
+Olive went up the steep path towards the Belvedere, hoping to find her
+there. That part of the garden was not much frequented, and the white
+bodies and uplifted arms of the marble gods gleamed ghostly and
+forlorn in the dusk of the ilex woods that lay between the
+amphitheatre and the gate.
+
+She went on until she saw a glimmer of red through the close-woven
+branches. Mamie was there in the dark wood, and she was not alone. A
+man was with her, and he was holding her easily, as if he knew she
+would not go yet, and laughing as she stood on tiptoe to reach the
+fine cruel lips that touched hers presently, when he chose that they
+should.
+
+Olive turned and ran up the path to the top of the hill, and there she
+stood for a while, trying to get her breath, trying to be calm, and
+sane and tolerant, to see no harm where perhaps there was none after
+all. And yet the treachery and the deceit were so flagrant that surely
+no condonation was possible. She felt sick of men and women, and of
+life itself, since the greatest thing in it seemed to be this
+hateful, miscalled love that preceded sorrow and shame and death. Was
+love always loathsome to look upon? Not in pictures or on the stage,
+where it was represented as a kind of minuet in which the man makes
+graceful advances to a woman who smiles as she draws away, but in real
+life--
+
+"Not real love," she said to herself. "Oh, God, help me to go on
+believing in that."
+
+Raising her eyes she saw the evening star sparkling in a wide, soft,
+clear space of sky. It seemed infinitely pure and remote, and yet
+somehow good and kind, as it had to Dante when he climbed up out of
+hell.
+
+"_Quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle._"
+
+"_Ora si chiude!_" bawled a gardener from the Belvedere.
+
+Mamie came hurrying up the path towards the hill. "Oh, are you there?"
+she said in some confusion. "I went some of the way to the other gate
+with Daisy."
+
+"I was beginning to be afraid you were lost, so I came along hoping to
+meet you," answered Olive.
+
+She said nothing to the girl of what she had seen. It would have been
+useless; nothing could alter or abash her inherent unmorality. But
+after dinner she wrote a note to Edna and went out herself to post it.
+
+The answer came at noon on the following day. Miss Marvel would be at
+home and alone between three and four and would be pleased to see Miss
+Agar then; meanwhile she remained very sincerely her friend.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+"Why do you tell me this now?" asked Edna. "The other day when I asked
+you if you had known him before you said you had not."
+
+"Something that has happened since then determined me."
+
+Edna's room was full of flowers, roses, narcissi and violets, and the
+air was heavy with their scent. Filippo had never failed in his
+_petits soins_. It was so easy to give an order at the florist's, and
+the bill would come in presently, after the wedding, and be paid in
+American dollars. There were boxes of sweets too; and a volume of
+Romola, bound in white and gold, lay on the table. Edna had been
+looking at the inscription on the fly-leaf when Olive came in.
+"_Carissima_" he had written, and she had believed him, but that was
+half an hour ago. Now her small body was shaken with sobs, her face
+was stained with tears because that faith she had had was dying.
+
+The chill at her heart made her feel altogether cold, and she edged
+her chair nearer to the fire, and put her feet up on the fender.
+
+"I wish I could feel it was not true, but somehow though I have been
+so fond of him I have not trusted him. Well, your cousin was
+beautiful, and perhaps he had known her a long time before he knew me.
+He wanted to say good-bye kindly. He was entangled--such things
+happen, I know. He could not help what happened afterwards. That was
+not his fault."
+
+Olive could not meet her pleading eyes. "I thought something like that
+last week," she said. "And that is why I kept silence; but now I know
+he would make you unhappy always. Oh, forgive me for hurting you so."
+She came and knelt down beside the little girl, and put her arms about
+her. "Don't cry, my dear. Don't cry."
+
+"Oh, Olive, I was so fond of him! Now tell me what has happened
+since."
+
+"Put your hands in mine. There, I will rub the poor tiny things and
+warm them. They are so pretty. Yesterday, in the Boboli gardens, I
+missed your cousin, and when I went to look for her I saw her with the
+Prince. He held her and was kissing her."
+
+"Oh!" Edna sprang to her feet. "That settles it. Mamie is common and
+real homely, and if he can run after her I have done with him. I could
+have forgiven the other, especially as she is dead, but Mamie!
+Gracious! Here he is!"
+
+He came into the room leisurely, smiling, very sure of his welcome.
+Olive met the hot insolence of his stare steadily, and Edna turned her
+back on him.
+
+"Olive," she said, "you speak to him. Tell him--ask him--" Her gentle
+voice broke.
+
+"What is the matter?" he asked carefully.
+
+"I saw you twice in Siena last summer. Do you remember _Rigoletto_ at
+the Lizza theatre? You were in the stage box. You wore evening dress,
+and I saw that emerald ring you have now on your finger. The next day
+you met my Cousin Gemma in my room in the Vicolo dei Moribondi. Do you
+remember the steep dark stairs and the white walls of the bare place
+where you saw her last?"
+
+He made no answer, and there was still a smile on his lips, but his
+eyes were hard. Edna was looking at him now, but he seemed to have
+forgotten her.
+
+"I suppose you loved her," Olive said slowly. "Do you remember the
+faint pink curve of her mouth, the little cleft in her chin, and her
+hair that was so soft and fine? There were always little stray curls
+on the white nape of her neck. I came to my room that morning to fetch
+a book. When I had climbed the stairs I found that I had not the key
+with me, but the door was unlocked and I saw her there with a man, and
+I saw the green gleam of an emerald."
+
+Men have such a power of silence. No woman but would have made some
+answer now, denying with a show of surprise, making excuses, using
+words in one way or another.
+
+"They were talking about you in the town, though I think they did not
+know who you were--at least I never heard your name--and that night
+Gemma's _fidanzato_ told her he would not marry her. You know best
+what that meant to her. She rushed into her own room and threw herself
+out of the window. Ah, you should have seen the dark blood oozing
+through the fine soft curls! She lay dead in the street for hours
+before they took her away."
+
+"_Santissimo Dio!_ Is this true?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Gemma--I never knew it--" His face was greatly altered now, and he
+had to moisten his lips before he could speak.
+
+"I could have forgiven that," Edna said tremulously after a while.
+"But not yesterday. Your kisses are too cheap, Filippo."
+
+"Oh," he said hoarsely. "So Gemma's cousin saw that too. It was
+nothing, meant nothing. Edna, if you can pardon the other, surely--"
+
+"It was nothing; and it proved that Mamie is nothing, and that you are
+nothing--to me. That is the end of the matter."
+
+He winced now at the contempt underlying her quiet words, and when she
+took off her ring and laid it on the table between them he picked it
+up and flung it into the fire.
+
+"I do not take things back," he said savagely.
+
+When he had left the room Edna began to cry again. "I believe he is
+suffering now, but not for me. Would he care if I killed myself? I
+guess not. I am not pretty, only my hands, and hands don't count."
+
+Olive tried to comfort her.
+
+"Poppa shall take me away right now. I have had enough of Europe, and
+so I shall tell him when he comes in. Must you go now? Well, good-bye,
+my dear, and thank you. You are white all through, and I am glad you
+have acted as you have, though it hurts now. If ever I marry it shall
+be an American ... but I was real fond of Filippo."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+Cardinal Jacopo of Portugal was buried in a side chapel of the church
+of San Miniato al Monte, and his counterfeit presentment, wrought in
+stone, lies on the tomb Rossellino made for him. Rossellino, who loved
+to carve garlands of acanthus and small sweet _amorini_, has conferred
+immortality on some of the men whose tombs he adorned in
+_basso-rilievo_, and they are remembered because of him; but the
+cardinal has another claim. He is beautiful in himself as he rests
+there, his young face set in the peace that passes all understanding,
+his thin hands folded on his breast.
+
+Mourners were kneeling in the central aisles of the church, and women
+carrying wreaths passed through it on their way to the Campo Santo
+beyond, for this was the day of All Souls, and there were fresh
+flowers on the new graves, and little black lamps were lit on those
+that were grass grown and decked only with the bead blossoms that are
+kept in glass cases and need not be changed once a year. The afternoon
+was passing, but still Olive lingered by the cardinal's monument.
+Looking at him understandingly she saw that there had been lines of
+pain about the firm mouth. He had suffered in his short life, he had
+suffered until death came to comfort him and give him quiet sleep. The
+mother-sense in her yearned over him, lying there straight and still,
+with closed eyes that had never seen love; and, womanlike, she pitied
+the accomplished loneliness that yet seemed to her the most beautiful
+thing in the world. The old familiar words were in her mind as she
+looked down upon this saint uncanonised: "Cleanse the thoughts of my
+heart by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit!" and she remembered
+Astorre, for whose sake she had come to this church to pray. Once when
+she had been describing a haggard St Francis in the Sienese gallery to
+him, he had said: "Ah, women always pity him and admire his
+picturesque asceticism, but if married men look worried they do not
+notice it. Their troubles are no compliment to your sex."
+
+Poor Astorre had not been devout in any sense, but he had written his
+friend a long letter on the day after Gemma's suicide, and he had
+asked for her prayers then. "Fausto told me how you knelt there in the
+street beside the dead Odalisque and said the Pater-noster and the
+Miserere. Perhaps you will do as much for me one day. Your prayers
+should help the soul that is freed now from the burden of the flesh. I
+cannot complain of flesh myself, but my bones weigh and I shall be
+glad to be rid of them. Come and see me soon, _carissima_ ..."
+
+The next morning his mother sent for the girl, but when she came into
+the darkened room where he lay he had already passed away.
+
+"He asked for you, but he would not see a priest. You know they
+refused to bury his father because he fought for united Italy. Ah!
+Rome never forgets."
+
+After the funeral Signora Aurelia had sold her furniture and gone
+away, and she was living now with a widowed sister in Rome. The
+Menotti had left Siena too and had gone to Milan, and Olive, not
+caring to stay on alone in the place where everyone knew what had
+happened, had come to the Lorenzoni in Florence. She had had a letter
+from Carmela that morning.
+
+"We like Milan as the streets are so gay, and the shops are beautiful.
+We should have got much better mourning here at Bocconi's if we could
+have waited, but of course that was impossible. Our apartment is
+convenient, but small and rather dark. Maria hopes you are fatter. She
+is going to send you some _panforte_ and a box of sugared fruits at
+Christmas. _La Zia_ has begun to crochet another counterpane; that
+will be the eighth, and we have only three beds. _Pazienza!_ It amuses
+her."
+
+Though Olive was not happy at the Palazzo Lorenzoni, she could not
+wish that she had stayed with her cousins. She felt that their little
+life would have stifled her. Thinking of them, she saw them, happier
+than before, since poor Gemma had not been easy to live with, and
+quite satisfied to do the same things every day, waddling out of a
+morning to early mass and the marketing, eating and sleeping during
+the noon hours, and in the evenings going to hear the music _in
+piazza_.
+
+Olive was not happy. She was one of those women whose health depends
+upon their spirits, and of late she had felt her loneliness to be
+almost unbearable. Her youth had cried for all, or nothing. She would
+have her love winged and crowned; he should come to her before all the
+world. Never would she set her foot in secret gardens, or let joy come
+to her by hidden ways, but now she faced the future and saw that it
+was grey, and she was afraid.
+
+It seemed to her that she was destined to live always in the Social
+Limbo, suspended between heaven and earth, an alien in the
+drawing-room and not received in the kitchen. One might as well be
+_declassee_ at once, she thought, and yet she knew that that must be
+hell.
+
+If Avenel came to Florence and sought her out would she be weak as
+Gemma had been, light as Mamie was? Olive knelt for a while on the
+stones, and her lips moved, though her prayer was inarticulate.
+
+Sunset was burning across the Val d'Arno, and the river flowed as a
+stream of pure gold under the dark of the historic bridges. Already
+lights sparkled in the windows of the old houses over the Ponte
+Vecchio, and the bells of all the churches were ringing the Ave Maria
+as she passed through the whining crowd of beggars at the gate of the
+Campo Santo and went slowly down the hill. The blessed hour of peace
+and silence was over now, and she must trudge back through the
+clamorous streets to be with Mamie, to meet the Marchese's horribly
+observant eyes, and to be everlastingly quiet and complacent and
+useful. She was paid for that.
+
+She was going up to her room when the lodge porter ran up the stairs
+after her with a letter. "For you, signorina."
+
+It was from Edna.
+
+    "DEAR OLIVE"--she had written,--"I could not wait for
+    trains so papa has hired a car, and we shall motor
+    straight to Genoa and catch the boat there. I want to go
+    home to America pretty badly.--Your loving friend,
+
+                    "EDNA.
+
+    "_P.S._--I am still right down glad you told me.--E. M."
+
+One of the servants came to Olive's room presently.
+
+"La Signora Marchesa wishes to see you at once in her boudoir."
+
+The Marchesa had come straight from the motor to her own room, her
+head was still swathed in a white veil, and she had not even taken off
+her heavy sable coat. She had switched on the light on her entrance,
+and now she was searching in the drawers of her bureau for her
+cheque-book.
+
+"Ah, well, gold perhaps," she said after a while, impatiently, as she
+snapped open the chain purse that hung from her wrist. "Is that you,
+Miss Agar?"
+
+Olive, seeing her counting out her money, like the queen in the
+nursery rhyme, had stopped short near the door. She paled a little as
+she understood this must be the sequel to what she had done, but she
+held her head high, and there was a light of defiance in the blue
+eyes.
+
+"I have to speak to you very seriously."
+
+The Marchesa, a large woman, was slow and deliberate in all her
+movements. She took her place on a brocaded settee with the air of a
+statue of Juno choosing a pedestal, and began to draw off her gloves.
+"I greatly regret that this should be necessary." She seemed prepared
+to clean Augean stables, and there was something judicial in her
+aspect too, but she did not look at Olive. "You know that I took you
+into my house on the recommendation of the music-teacher, Signora
+Giannini. It was foolish, I see that now. It has come to my knowledge
+that you had no right to enter here, no right to be with my daughter."
+She paused. "You must understand perfectly what I mean," she said
+impressively.
+
+"No, I do not understand," the girl said. "Will you explain,
+Marchesa?"
+
+"Can you deny that you were involved in a most discreditable affair in
+Siena before you came here? That your intrigue--I hate to have to
+enter into the unsavoury details, Miss Agar, but you have forced me to
+it--that your intrigue with your cousin's _fiance_ drove her to
+suicide, and that you were obliged to leave the place in consequence?"
+
+"It is not true."
+
+"Ah, but your cousin killed herself?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Her lover was in the house at the time, and you were there too?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"You were at the theatre the night before and everyone noticed that he
+paid you great attention?"
+
+"He? Oh," cried Olive, "how horrible, and how clever!"
+
+The hard grey eyes met hers for a moment.
+
+The girl's pale face was flushed now with shame and anger. "So clever!
+Will you congratulate the Prince for me, Marchesa?" she said very
+distinctly.
+
+"You are impertinent. Of course, I cannot keep you. My daughter--"
+
+The Marchesa saw her mistake as she made it and would have passed on,
+but Olive was too quick for her. She smiled. "Your daughter! I do not
+think I can have harmed her."
+
+"You can take your money; I have left it there for you on the bureau.
+Please pack your boxes and be off as soon as possible."
+
+"I am to leave to-night? It is dark already, and I have no friends in
+Florence."
+
+The Marchesa shrugged her shoulders. "I can't help that," she said.
+
+Olive went slowly out into the hall, and stood there hesitating at the
+head of the stairs. She scarcely knew what to do or where to turn, but
+she was determined not to stay longer than she could help under this
+roof. She went down to the porter's lodge in the paved middle court.
+
+"Gigia!"
+
+The old woman came hobbling out to greet her with a toothless smile.
+"Ah, _bella signorina_, there are no more letters for you to-night.
+Have you come to talk to me for a little?"
+
+"I am going away," the girl answered hurriedly. "Will your husband
+come in to fetch my luggage soon? At eight o'clock?"
+
+Gigia laid a skinny hand on Olive's arm, and her sharp old eyes
+blinked anxiously as she said, "Where are you going, _nina mia_?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Not to the Prince?"
+
+"Good heavens! No!"
+
+"Ah, the _padrona_ is hard--and you are pretty. I thought it might be
+that, perhaps. Don Filippo is like his old wolf of a father, and young
+lambs should beware of him."
+
+"Can you tell me of some quiet, decent rooms where I can go to night?"
+
+"_Sicuro!_ My husband's brother keeps the Aquila Verde, and you can go
+there. Giovanni will give you his best room if he hears that you come
+from us, and he will not charge too much. I am sorry you are going,
+_cara_."
+
+Olive squeezed her hand. "Thank you, Gigia. You are the only one I am
+sorry to say good-bye to. I shall not forget you."
+
+The Marchese was coming down the stairs as Olive went up again. He
+smiled at her as he stood aside to let her pass. "You are late, are
+you not? I shall not tell tales but I hope for your sake that my wife
+won't see you."
+
+"She won't see me again. I am going," she answered.
+
+He would have detained her. "One moment," he said eagerly, but she was
+not listening. "I shall miss you."
+
+After all she heard him. "Thank you," she said gravely.
+
+A door was closed on the landing below, and the master of the house
+glanced at it apprehensively. He was not sure--
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+The Aquila Verde was the oldest of the tall houses in the narrow
+Vicolo dei Donati; the lower windows were barred with iron worn by the
+rains of four hundred years, and there were carved marble pillars on
+either side of the door. The facade had been frescoed once, and some
+flakes of colour, red, green and yellow, still adhered to the wall
+close under the deep protecting eaves.
+
+"It was a palace of the Donati once," the host explained to Olive as
+he set a plate of steaming macaroni swamped in tomato sauce before
+her.
+
+"I thought it might have been a convent, because of the long paved
+corridors and this great room that is like a refectory."
+
+"No, the Donati lived here. Dante's wife, Gemma, perhaps. Who knows!"
+
+Ser Giovanni took up a glass and polished it vigorously with the
+napkin he carried always over his arm before he filled it with red
+Chianti. He had never had a foreigner in his house before, but he had
+heard many tales about them from the waiters in the great
+Anglo-American hotels on the Lung'Arno, and he knew that they craved
+for warmth and an unlimited supply of hot water and tea. Naturally he
+was afraid of them, and he was also shy of stray women, but Olive was
+pretty, and he was a man, and moreover a Florentine, and his brother
+had come with her and had been earnest in his recommendations, so he
+was anxious to please her. "There is no _dolce_ to-night," he said
+apologetically. "But perhaps you will take an orange."
+
+When Olive went up to her room presently she found a great copper jar
+of hot water set beside the tiny washstand. The barred window was high
+in the thickness of the stone wall and the uncarpeted floor was of
+brick. The place was bare and cold as a cell, but the bed, narrow and
+white as that of Mary Mother in Rossetti's picture, invited her, and
+she slept well. She was awakened at eight o'clock by a young waiter
+who brought in her coffee and rolls on a tray. She was a little
+startled by his unceremonious entrance, but it seemed to be so much a
+matter of course that she could not resent it. He took the copper jar
+away with him. "The _padrone_ says you will want some more water," he
+said smilingly.
+
+"Yes. But--but if you bring it back you can leave it outside the
+door."
+
+The coffee was not good, but it was hot, and the rolls were crisp and
+delicious, and Olive ate and drank happily and with an excellent
+appetite. No more listening to mangled scales and murdered nocturnes
+and sonatas, no more interminable meals at which she must sit silent
+and yet avoid "glumness," no more walking at Mamie's heels.
+
+She was free!
+
+Presently she said to herself, more soberly, that nevertheless she
+must work somehow to gain her livelihood. Yes, she must find work
+soon. The Aquila Verde would shelter and feed her for six lire a day.
+Her last month's salary of eighty lire had been paid her four days
+ago, and she had already spent more than half of it on things she
+needed, new boots, an umbrella, gloves, odds and ends. This month's
+money had been given her last night, and she had left a few lire for
+the servant who had always brought up her dinner to her room, and had
+made Gigia a little present. The cabman had bullied her into giving
+him two lire. She had about one hundred remaining to her. Sixes into
+one hundred.... Working it out carefully on the back of an old
+envelope she found that she might live on her means for sixteen days,
+and then go out into the streets with four lire in her pocket--no,
+three, since she could scarcely leave without giving a _mancia_ to the
+young man whom she now heard whistling "Lucia" in the corridor.
+
+"The hot water, signorina."
+
+"A thousand thanks."
+
+Surely in a few days she would find work. It occurred to her that she
+might advertise. "Young English lady would give lessons. Terms
+moderate. Apply O. A., Aquila Verde." She wrote it out presently, and
+took it herself to the office of one of the local papers.
+
+"I have saved fifteen centesimi," she thought as she walked rather
+wearily back by the long Via Cavour.
+
+Three days passed and she was the poorer by eighteen lire. On Sunday
+she spent the morning at the Belle Arti Gallery. Haggard saints peered
+out at her from dark corners. Flora smiled wistfully through her
+tears; she saw the three strong archangels leading boy Tobias home
+across the hills, and Angelico's monks and nuns meeting the Blessed
+Ones in the green, daisied fields of Paradise, and for a little while
+she was able to forget that no one seemed to want English lessons.
+
+On Monday she decided that she must leave the Aquila Verde if she
+could find anyone to take her for four, or even three lire a day. She
+went to Cook's office in the Via Tornabuoni; it was crowded with
+Americans come for their mails, and she had to wait ten minutes before
+one of the young men behind the counter could attend to her.
+
+"What can I do for you?"
+
+"Can you recommend me to a very cheap _pension_?"
+
+She noticed a faint alteration in his manner, as though he had lost
+interest in what she was saying, but when he had looked at her again
+he answered pleasantly, "There is Vinella's in the Piazza
+Indipendenza, six francs, and there is another in the Via dei Bardi, I
+think; but I will ask. Excuse me."
+
+He went to speak to another clerk at the cashier's desk. They both
+stared across at her, and she fancied she heard the words, pretty,
+cheap enough, poor.
+
+"There is a place in the Via Decima kept by a Frau Heylmann. I think
+it might suit you, and I will write the address down. It is really not
+bad and I can recommend it as I am staying there myself," he added
+ingenuously. He seemed really anxious to help now, and Olive thanked
+him.
+
+As she went out she met Prince Tor di Rocca coming in. Their eyes met
+momentarily and he bowed. It seemed strange to her afterwards when she
+thought of it, but she fancied he would have spoken if she had given
+him an opportunity. Did he want to explain, to tell more lies? She had
+thought him too strong to care what women thought of him once they had
+served him and been cast aside. True, she was not precisely one of
+these.
+
+The Via Decima proved to be one of the wide new streets near the Porta
+San Gallo. No. 38 was a pretentious house, a tenement building trying
+to look like a palace, and it was plastered over with dingy yellow
+stucco. Olive went through the hall into a courtyard hung with drying
+linen, and climbed up an outside iron staircase to the fifth floor.
+There was a brass plate on the Frau's door, and Canova's Graces in
+terra cotta smirked in niches on either side. The large pale woman who
+answered the bell wore a grey flannel dressing-gown that was almost
+buttonless, and her light hair was screwed into an absurdly small knot
+on the nape of her neck.
+
+"You want to be taken _en pension_? Come in."
+
+She led the way into a bare and chilly dining-room; the long table was
+covered with black American cloth that reminded Olive of beetles, but
+everything was excessively clean. There was a framed photograph of the
+Kaiser on the sideboard. In a room beyond someone was playing the
+violin.
+
+"How many are you in family?"
+
+"I am alone."
+
+The Frau looked down at the gloved hands. "You are not married?"
+
+"No."
+
+The woman hesitated. "You would be out during the day?"
+
+"Oh, yes," Olive said hopefully. "I shall be giving lessons."
+
+"Ah, well, perhaps-- What would you pay?"
+
+"I am poor, and I thought you would say as little as possible. I
+should be glad to help you in the house."
+
+"There is a good deal of mending," the Frau said thoughtfully; "and
+you might clean your own room. Shall we say twenty-four lire weekly?"
+
+The playing in the other room ceased, and a young man put his head in
+at the door. "_Mutter_," he said, and then begged her pardon, but he
+did not go away.
+
+Olive tried not to look at him, but he was staring at her and his eyes
+were extraordinarily blue. He was pale, and his wide brows and strong
+cleft chin reminded her of Botticelli's steel-clad archangel. He wore
+his smooth fair hair rather long too, in the archangelic manner, he--
+
+"Paid in advance," Frau Heylmann said very sharply. Then she turned
+upon her son. "What do you want, Wilhelm?"
+
+"Oh, I can wait," he said easily.
+
+She snorted. "I am sorry I cannot receive you," she said to the girl.
+"I am not accustomed to have young women in my house. No."
+
+She waddled to the door and Olive followed her meekly, but she could
+not keep her lips from smiling. "I do not blame you," she said as she
+passed out on to the landing. "Your son is charming."
+
+The woman looked at her more kindly now that she was going. "He is
+beautiful," she said, with pride. "Some day he will be great. _Ach!_
+You should hear him play!"
+
+Olive laughed. "You would not let me."
+
+She could not take this rebuff seriously, but as she trudged the
+streets in the thin cold rain that had fallen persistently all that
+morning her sense of humour was blunted by discomfort. The long dark,
+stone-paved hall that was the restaurant of the Aquila Verde seemed
+cold and cheerless. At noon it was always full of hungry men devouring
+macaroni and _vitello alla Milanese_, and the steam of hot food and
+the sound of masticating jaws greeted Olive as she came in and took
+her place at a little table near the stove.
+
+The young waiter, Angelo, brought her a cup of coffee after the cheese
+and celery. "It gives courage," he said. "And I see you need that
+to-day, signorina."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+Olive saw the _padrone_ of the Aquila Verde that night before she went
+to her room and told him she was leaving.
+
+His face fell. "Signorina! I am sorry! I told Angelo to bring hot
+water every time, always, when you rang. Have you not been well
+served?"
+
+She reassured him on that point and went on to explain that she was
+going to live alone. "I have made arrangements," she added vaguely. "A
+man will come with a truck to take my box away to-morrow morning."
+
+And the _padrone_ was too much a man of his world to ask any more
+questions.
+
+There had been no rooms vacant in the _pension_ in Piazza
+Indipendenza. The manservant who answered the door had recommended an
+Italian lady who took paying guests, and Olive had gone to see her,
+but her rooms were small, dark and dingy, and they smelt
+overpoweringly of sandal wood and rancid oil. The shabbily-smart
+_padrona_ had been voluble and even affectionate. "I am so fond of the
+English," she said. "My husband is much occupied and I am often
+lonely, but we shall be able to go out together and amuse ourselves,
+you and I. I had been hoping to get an invitation to go to the
+_Trecento_ ball at the Palazzo Vecchio, but Luigi cannot manage it.
+Never mind! We will go to all the _Veglioni_. I love dancing." She
+looked complacently down at her stubby little feet in their
+down-at-heel beaded slippers.
+
+Olive had been glad to get away when she heard the impossible terms,
+but the afternoon was passing, and when she got to the house in the
+Via dei Bardi she saw bills of sale plastered on its walls and a
+litter of straw and torn paper in the courtyard. The porter came out
+of his lodge to tell her that one of the daughters had died.
+
+"They all went away, and the furniture was sold yesterday."
+
+As Olive had never really wished to live and eat with strangers she
+was not greatly depressed by these experiences, but she was cold and
+tired, and her head ached, and when on her way back to the Aquila
+Verde she saw a card, "_Affitasi, una camera, senza mobilia_," in the
+doorway of one of the old houses in the Borgo San Jacopo, she went in
+and up the long flight of steep stone stairs without any definite idea
+of what she wanted beyond a roof to shelter her.
+
+A shrivelled, snuffy old woman showed her the room. It was very large
+and lofty, and it had two great arched windows that looked out upon
+the huddled roofs of Oltr'Arno. The brick floor was worn and
+weather-stained, as were the white-washed walls.
+
+"It was a _loggia_, but some of the arches have been filled in and the
+others glazed. Ten lire a month, signorina. As to water, there is a
+good fountain in the courtyard."
+
+Olive moved in next day.
+
+Heaven helps those who help themselves, she thought, as she borrowed a
+broom from her landlady to sweep the floor. The morning was fine and
+she opened the windows wide and let the sun and air in. At noon she
+went down into the Borgo and bought fried _polenta_ for five soldi and
+a slice of chestnut cake at the cook shop, and filled her kettle with
+clear cold water from the fountain in the courtyard.
+
+Later, as she waited for the water to boil over her little spirit
+lamp, she made a list of absolute necessaries. She had paid a month's
+rent in advance, and fifty-three lire remained to her. Fifty-three
+lire out of which she must buy a straw mattress, a camp-stool, two
+blankets, some crockery and soap.
+
+She went out presently to do her shopping and came back at dusk. She
+was young enough to rather enjoy the novelty of her proceedings, and
+she slept well that night on the floor, pillowless, and wrapped in her
+coarse brown coverings; and though the moon shone in upon her through
+the unshuttered windows for a while she did not dream or wake until
+the dawn.
+
+Olive tried very hard to get work in the days that followed, and she
+went twice to the registry office in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele.
+
+"Ah, you were here before." A stout woman came bustling out from the
+room behind the shop to speak to her the second time. "There is
+nothing for you, _signorina mia_. The ladies who come here will not
+take anyone without a character, and a written reference from Milan or
+Rome is no good. I told you so before. Last winter Contessa Foscoli
+had an English maid with a written character--not from us, I am glad
+to say--and she ran away with the chauffeur after a fortnight, and
+took a diamond ring and the Contessa's pearls with her. If you cannot
+tell me who you were with last I shall not be able to help you."
+
+"The Marchesa Lorenzoni," Olive said.
+
+The woman drew in her breath with a hissing noise, then she smiled,
+not pleasantly. "Why did you not say so before? I have heard of you,
+of course. The little English girl! Well, I can't help you, my dear.
+This is a registry office."
+
+Olive walked out of the shop at once, but she heard the woman calling
+to someone in the room at the back to come and look at her, and she
+felt her cheeks burning as she crossed the road. "The little English
+girl!" What were they saying about her?
+
+One morning she went into one of the English tea-rooms. It was kept
+by two elderly maiden ladies, and one of them came forward to ask her
+what she wanted. The Pagoda was deserted at that hour, a barren
+wilderness of little bamboo tables and chairs, tea-less and cake-less.
+The walls were distempered green and sparsely decorated with Japanese
+paper fans, and Olive noticed them and the pattern of the carpet and
+remembered them afterwards as one remembers the frieze, the
+engravings, the stale periodicals in a dentist's waiting-room.
+
+"Do--do you want a waitress?"
+
+The older woman's face changed. Oh, that change! The girl knew it so
+well now that she saw it ten times a day.
+
+"No. My sister and I manage very well, and we have an Italian maid to
+do the washing up."
+
+"Thank you," Olive said, faltering. "You don't know anyone who wants
+an English girl? I have been very well educated. At least--"
+
+"I am afraid not."
+
+Poor Olive. She was an unskilled workwoman, not especially gifted in
+any way or fitted by her upbringing to earn her daily bread. Long
+years of her girlhood had been spent at a select school, and in the
+result she knew a part of the Book of Kings by heart, with the Mercy
+speech from the _Merchant of Venice_ and the date of the Norman
+Conquest. Every day she bought the _Fieramosca_, and she tried to see
+the other local papers when they came out. Several people advertised
+who wanted to exchange lessons, but no one seemed inclined to pay.
+Once she saw names she knew in the social column.
+
+    "The Marchese Lorenzoni is going to Monte Carlo, and he
+    will join the Marchesa and Miss Whittaker in Cairo later
+    in the season."
+
+    "Prince Tor di Rocca is going to Egypt for Christmas."
+
+It was easy to read between the lines.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+Florence, in the great days of the Renaissance, bore many men whom now
+she delights to honour, and Ugo Manelli was one of these. He helped to
+build a bridge over the Arno, he had his palace in the Corso frescoed
+by Masaccio, he framed sumptuary laws, and he wrote sonnets, charming
+sonnets that are still read by the people who care for such things.
+The fifth centenary of his birthday, on the twenty-eighth of November,
+was to be kept with great rejoicings therefore. There were to be
+fireworks and illuminations of the streets for the people, and a
+_Trecento_ costume ball at the Palazzo Vecchio for those who had
+influence to procure tickets and money to pay for them.
+
+Mamie, greatly daring, proclaimed her intention of wearing the "_umile
+ed onesto sanguigno_" of Beatrice.
+
+"You will be my Dante, Don Filippo? Momma is going in cloth of gold as
+Giovanna degli Albizzi."
+
+The Marchese looked inquiringly at the Prince. "Shall you add to the
+gaiety of nations, or at least of Florence?"
+
+The young man shrugged his broad shoulders. "I suppose so." He was
+well established as _cavalier servente_ now in the Lorenzoni
+household, and it was understood that Mamie would be a princess some
+day. The girl was so young that the engagement could scarcely be
+announced yet.
+
+"I guess we must wait until you are eighteen, Mamie," her mother said.
+"Keep him amused and don't be exacting or he'll quit. He is still sore
+from his jilting."
+
+"I can manage him," the girl boasted, but she had no real influence
+over him now. The forbidden fruit had allured him, but since it was
+his for the gathering it seemed sour--as indeed it was, and he was not
+the man to allow himself to be tied to the apron-strings of a child.
+When he was in a good humour he watched his future wife amusedly as
+she metaphorically and sometimes literally danced before him, but he
+discouraged the excess of audacity that had attracted him formerly,
+perhaps because he scarcely relished the idea of a Princess Tor di
+Rocca singing, "_O che la gioia mi fe morir_."
+
+Probably he regretted gentle, amenable Edna. At times he was grimly,
+impenetrably silent, and often he said things that would have wounded
+a tender heart past healing. Fortunately there were none such in the
+Palazzo Lorenzoni.
+
+"I shall be ridiculous as the Alighieri, and you must forgive me,
+Mamie, if I say that one scarcely sees in you a reincarnation of
+Monna Beatrice."
+
+"Red is my colour," the girl answered rather defiantly.
+
+The Marchese laughed gratingly.
+
+Filippo dined with the Lorenzoni on the night of the ball. He wore the
+red _lucco_, but had declined to crown himself with laurel. His gaudy
+Muse, however, had no such scruples, and her black curls were wreathed
+with silver leaves. The Prince was not the only guest; there was a
+slender, flaxen-haired girl from New York dressed after Botticelli's
+Judith, an artillery captain as Lorenzo dei Medici, and another man, a
+Roman, in the grey of the order of San Francesco.
+
+"Poppa left for Monte this morning," Mamie explained over the soup.
+"He reckoned dressing up was just foolishness, but the fact is armour
+is hot and heavy, and he would have had to pass from trousers into
+greaves. He has not got the right kind of legs for parti-coloured
+hosen, someway."
+
+The Piazza della Signoria was crowded as it had been on that dreadful
+May day when Girolamo's broken body was burnt to ashes there; as it
+was on the afternoon of the Pazzi conspiracy, when a bishop was hanged
+from one of the windows of the old Palazzo. But the old order had
+changed, giving place to new even here, and the people had come now
+merely to see the fine dresses; there was no thought of murder,
+though there might be some picking of pockets. The night was still and
+cold, and the white, round moon that had risen above the roof of the
+Loggia dei Lanzi shone, unclouded, upon the restless human sea that
+divided here and there to let the carriages and motors pass. The
+guests entered by the side door nearest the Uffizi, and _carabinieri_
+kept the way clear. The crowd was dense thereabouts, and the people
+pushed and jostled one another, leaned forward, and stood on tiptoe to
+see the brocaded ladies in their jewelled coifs and the men, hooded
+and strange, in their gay mediaeval garb.
+
+The Marchesa's cloth of gold drew the prolonged "Oh!" of admiration
+that is only accorded to the better kind of fireworks, and hearing it,
+she smiled, well satisfied. Mamie followed with Filippo. Her dress of
+rose-coloured brocade was exquisite. It clung to her and seemed to be
+her one and only garment; one could almost see the throb of her heart
+through the thin stuff. She let her furred cloak fall as she got out
+of the car and then drew it up again about her bare arms and
+shoulders.
+
+"Who is the black-curled scarlet thing?"
+
+"Beatrice."
+
+"What! half naked! She is more like one of the _donnine_ in the
+_Decameron_."
+
+Her Dante, overhearing, hurried her up the steps. His eyes were
+bright with anger in the shadow of his hood, but they changed and
+darkened as he caught sight of one girl's face in the crowd. At the
+foot of the grand staircase he turned, muttering some excuse and
+leaving Mamie and her mother to go up alone, and hurried back and out
+into the street. He stood aside as though to allow some newcomers to
+pass in. The girl he had come to see was close to him, but she was
+half hidden behind a _carabiniere's_ broad epauletted shoulders.
+
+"_Scusi_," murmured the Prince as he leant across the man to pull at
+her sleeve. "I must see you," he said urgently. "When? Where?"
+
+"When you like," she answered, but her eyes were startled as they met
+his. "No. 27 Borgo San Jacopo. The only door on the sixth landing."
+
+"Very well. To-night, then, and in an hour's time."
+
+The press of incoming masqueraders screened them. The _carabiniere_
+knew the Prince by sight, and he listened with all his might, but they
+spoke English, and he dared not turn to stare at the girl until the
+tall figure in the red _lucco_ had passed up the steps and gone in
+again, and by that time she had slipped away out of sight.
+
+Filippo came to the Borgo a little before midnight and crossed the
+dingy threshold of No. 27 as the bells of the churches rang out the
+hour. The old street was quiet enough now but for the wailing of some
+strayed and starving cats that crept about the shadowed courts and
+under the crumbling archways, and the departing cab woke strange
+echoes as it rattled away over the cobble stones.
+
+The only door on the sixth landing was open.
+
+"What are you doing here?" Filippo said, wonderingly, as he groped his
+way in. The room was in utter darkness but for one ray of moonlight
+athwart it and the faint light of the stars, by which he saw Olive
+leaning against the sill of one of the unshuttered windows, and
+looking, as it seemed, towards him.
+
+"Come in," she said. "You need not be afraid of falling over the
+furniture. There is not much."
+
+"You seem partial to bare attics."
+
+"Ah! you are thinking of my room in the Vicolo dei Moribondi."
+
+"Yes!" he said as he came towards her from the door. "I cannot rest, I
+cannot forget. For God's sake tell me about the end! I have been to
+Siena since I heard, but I dared not ask too many questions. Was
+she--did she suffer very much before she died? Answer me quickly."
+
+"Throw back your hood," she said. "Let me see your face."
+
+Impatiently he thrust the folds of white and scarlet away and stood
+bare-headed. She saw that his strong lips quivered and that his eyes
+were contracted with pain.
+
+"No, she died instantly. They said at the inquest that it must have
+been so."
+
+"Her face--was she--" his voice broke.
+
+"I did not see it. It was covered by a handkerchief," she said gently.
+"Don't! Don't! I did not think you would suffer so much."
+
+"I suffer horribly day and night. Love is the scourge of the world in
+the hands of the devil. That is certain. She is buried near the south
+wall of the Campo Santo. Oh, God! when I think of her sweet flesh
+decaying--"
+
+Olive, scarcely knowing what she did, caught at his hand and held it
+tightly.
+
+"Hush, oh, hush!" she said tremulously. She felt as though she were
+seeing him racked. "I do believe that her soul was borne into heaven,
+God's heaven, on the day she died. She was forgiven."
+
+"Heaven!" he cried. "Where is heaven? I am not guilty of her death.
+She was a fool to die, and I shall not soon forgive her for leaving me
+so. If she came back I would punish her, torment her, make her scream
+with pain--if she came back--oh, Gemma!--_carissima_--"
+
+The hard, hot eyes filled with tears. He tried to drag his hand away,
+but the girl held it fast.
+
+"You are kind and good," he said presently in a changed voice. "I am
+sorry if I did you any harm with the Lorenzoni, but the woman told me
+she meant to send you away in any case because of the Marchese."
+
+Then, as he felt the clasp of her fingers loosening about his wrist,
+"Don't let go," he said quickly. "Is he really going to take you to
+Monte Carlo with him?"
+
+"Does his wife say so? Do you believe it?"
+
+He answered deliberately. "No, not now. But you cannot go on living
+like this."
+
+"No."
+
+He was right. She could not go on. Her little store of coppers was
+dwindling fast, so fast that the beggars at the church doors would
+soon be richer than she was. And she was tired of her straits, tired
+of coarse food and a bare lodging, and of the harsh, clamorous life of
+the streets. The yoke of poverty was very heavy.
+
+Filippo drew a little nearer to her. "I could make you love me."
+
+"Never."
+
+He made no answer in words but he caught her to him. She lay for a
+moment close in his arms, her heart beating on his, before she cried
+to him to let her go.
+
+He released her instantly. "Well?"
+
+"I must light the lamp," she said unsteadily. She was afraid now to be
+alone with him in the dim, starlit room, and she fumbled for the
+matches. He stood still by the window waiting until the little yellow
+flame of the _lucerna_ burnt brightly on the floor between them, then
+he smiled at her, well pleased at her pallor. "You see it would be
+easy," he said.
+
+She answered nothing.
+
+"I am going to Naples to-morrow by the afternoon train. Will you come
+with me? We will go where you like from there, to Capri, or to Sicily;
+and you will help me to forget, and I will teach you to live."
+
+There was silence between them for a while. Olive stared with
+fascinated eyes at this tall, lithe man whose red _lucco_, falling in
+straight folds to his feet, became him well. The upper part of his
+face was in shadow, and she saw only the strong lines of the cleft
+chin, and the beautiful cruel lips that smiled at her as though they
+knew what her answer must be.
+
+She was of those who are apt to prefer one hour of troubled joy to the
+long, grey, eventless years of the women who are said to be happy
+because they have no history, and it seemed to her that the moment had
+come when she must make a choice. This love was not what she had
+dreamed of, longed for; other lips, kinder and more true, should have
+set their seal on her accomplished womanhood. She knew that this that
+was offered was a perilous and sharp-edged thing, a bright sheath
+that held a sword for her heart, and yet that heart sang exultantly
+as it fluttered like a wild bird against the bars of its cage. It sang
+of youth and life and joy that cares not for the morrow.
+
+It sang.
+
+Filippo watched her closely and he saw that she was yielding. Her lips
+parted, and instinctively as he came towards her she closed her eyes
+so nearly that he saw only a narrow line of blue gleaming between her
+lashes. But as he laid his hands upon her shoulders something awoke
+within her, a terror that screamed in her ears.
+
+"I am afraid," she said brokenly. "Leave me and come back to-morrow
+morning if you will. I cannot answer you now."
+
+As he still held her she spoke again. "If I come to you willingly I
+shall be more worth having, and if you do not go now I will never
+come. I will drown myself in the Arno."
+
+"Very well. I will come to-morrow."
+
+When he was gone she went stumblingly across the room to the mattress
+on the floor in the farthest corner, and threw herself down upon it,
+dressed as she was.
+
+There was no more oil in the little lamp, and its flame flickered and
+went out after a while, leaving her in the dark. The clocks were
+striking two. Long since the moon had set behind the hills and now the
+stars were fading, or so it seemed. There was no light anywhere.
+
+Olive did not sleep. Her frightened thoughts ran to and fro busily,
+aimlessly, like ants disturbed, hither and thither, this way and that.
+He could give her so much. Nothing real, indeed, but many bright
+counterfeits. For a while she would seem to be cared for and beloved.
+Yes, but if the true love came she would be shamed. She knew that her
+faith in Dante's Amor, his lord of terrible aspect, made his coming
+possible. The men and women who go about proclaiming that there is no
+such person because they have never seen him were born blind. Like
+those prosy souls who call the poets mad, they mistake impotence for
+common sense.
+
+Besides, the first step always costs so dear, and now that he was gone
+and she could think of him calmly she knew that she was afraid of
+Filippo Tor di Rocca. He was cruel. Then among the forces arrayed
+against him there was the desire of that she called her soul to
+mortify her flesh, to beckon, to lead by stony ways to the heights of
+sacrifice. She could not be sure where that first step would lead her,
+she could not be sure of herself or gauge the depths to which she
+might fall.
+
+"Oh, God!" she said aloud. "Help me! Don't let things be too
+difficult."
+
+The hours of darkness were long, but the grey glimmering dawn came at
+last with a pattering of rain against the uncurtained window. Olive
+rose as soon as it was light, and before eight she had eaten the crust
+of bread she had saved for her breakfast and was gone out. On her way
+down the stairs she met her landlady and spoke to her.
+
+"If anyone comes to see me will you tell them that I have gone out,
+and that I do not know when I shall come in again. And if anything is
+said about my going away you can say that I have changed my mind and
+that I shall not leave Florence."
+
+She would not cross the river for fear of meeting Filippo in any of
+the more-frequented streets on the other side, so she went down the
+Via della Porta Romana and out by the gates into the open country
+beyond. She walked for a long time along muddy roads between the high
+walls of vineyards and olive orchards. She had an umbrella, but her
+skirts were draggled and splashed with mire and the water came through
+the worn soles of her thin shoes. She had nothing to eat and no money
+to buy food. There were some coppers in her purse, but she had
+forgotten to bring that. It was windy, and as she was toiling up the
+steep hill to Bellosguardo her umbrella blew inside out. She threw it
+down by the side of the road and went on, rather glad to be rid of it
+and to feel the rain on her face. She had two hands now to hold her
+skirt and that was better. Soon after noon she knocked at the door of
+a gardener's cottage and asked for something to eat; she was given a
+yellow lump of _polenta_ and a handful of roast chestnuts and she sat
+down on a low wall by the roadside to devour them. She did not think
+much about anything now, she could not even feel that she cared what
+happened to her, but she adhered to the resolution she had made to
+keep out of the way until Tor di Rocca had left Florence. She could
+not sit long. It was cold and she was poorly clad, so poorly that the
+woman in the cottage had believed her to be a beggar. The Prince would
+have had to buy her clothes before he could take her away with him.
+
+She wandered about until nightfall and then made her way back to the
+house in the Borgo, footsore and cold and wretched, but still the
+captain of her soul; ragged, but free and in no man's livery.
+
+The landlady heard her coming slowly up the stairs and came out of her
+room to speak to her.
+
+"A gentleman called for you this morning. I told him you were gone out
+and that you had changed your mind about leaving Florence, and at
+first he seemed angry, and then he laughed. 'Tell her we shall meet
+again,' he said. Then another came this afternoon in an automobile and
+asked if you lived here, and when I said you were out he said he would
+come again this evening. He left his card."
+
+Olive looked at it with dazed eyes. Her pale face flushed, but as she
+went on up the stairs the colour ebbed away until even her lips were
+white. She had to rest twice before she could reach her own landing,
+and when she had entered her room she could go no farther than the
+door. She fell, and it was some time before she could get up again,
+but she still held the card crumpled in her hand.
+
+"Jean Avenel."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+The Villa Fiorelli is set high among the olive groves above the
+village of Settignano. There are Medicean balls on a shield over the
+great wrought-iron gates, and the swarthy splendid banker princes
+appear as the Magi in the faded fresco painting of the Nativity in the
+chapel. They have knelt there in the straw of the stable of Bethlehem
+for more than four hundred years. The _nobili_ of Florence were used
+to loiter long ago on the terrace in the shade of the five cypresses,
+and women, famous or infamous, but always beautiful, listened to
+sonnets said and songs sung in their honour in the scented idleness of
+the rose garden. The villa belonged first to handsome, reckless
+Giuliano, the lover of Simonetta and others, and the father of a Pope,
+and when the dagger thrusts of the Pazzi put an end to his short life
+his elder brother and lord, Lorenzo, held it for a while before he
+sold it to the Salviati. So it passed through many hands until at last
+Hilaire Avenel bought it and filled it with the books and armour that
+he loved. There were Spanish suits, gold-chased, in the hall, Moorish
+swords and lances, and steel hauberks on the staircase, and stray
+arquebuses, greaves and gauntlets everywhere. They were all rather
+dusty, since Hilaire was unmarried; but he was well served
+nevertheless. He was not a sociable person, and no Florentine had ever
+partaken of a meal with him, but it was currently reported that he sat
+through a ten-course dinner every night of his life, crumbling the
+bread at the side of his plate, and invariably refusing to partake of
+nine of the dishes that were handed in form by the old butler.
+
+"It's real mean of your brother to keep his lovely garden shut up all
+through the spring," the Marchesa Lorenzoni had said once to Jean, and
+he had replied, "Well, it is his."
+
+That seemed final, but the present Marchesa and late relict of Jonas
+P. Whittaker of Pittsburg was not so easily put off. She was apt to
+motor up to Settignano more than once in the May month of flowers; the
+intractable Hilaire was never at home to her, but she revenged herself
+by multitudinous kind inquiries. He was an invalid, but he disliked to
+be reminded of his infirmities almost as much as he did most women and
+all cackle about the weather.
+
+Jean lived with him when not playing Chopin at the ends of the earth,
+and when the two were together the elder declared himself to be
+perfectly happy. "I only want you."
+
+"And your first editions and your Cellini helmet."
+
+When Jean came back from his American tour his brother was quick to
+notice a change in him, and when on the day after his Florentine
+concert he came in late for a dinner which he ate in silence, Hilaire
+spoke his mind. They were together in the library. Jean had taken a
+book down from the shelves but he was not reading it.
+
+"Bad coffee."
+
+"Was it?"
+
+Hilaire was watching his brother's face. It seemed to him that there
+were lines in it that he had not seen before, and the brown eyes that
+gazed so intently into the fire were surely very tired.
+
+He began again rather awkwardly. "You have been here a week, Jean."
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Did the concert go off well?"
+
+"Oh, well enough. As usual."
+
+"You went away alone in the Itala car before nine this morning and you
+came back scarcely an hour ago. What is the matter? Is there some new
+trouble? Jean, dear man, I am older than you; I have only you. What is
+it?"
+
+Jean reached out for his tobacco pouch. "Hilaire," he said very
+gravely, after a pause, which he occupied in filling his pipe. "You
+remember I asked you to do anything, anything, for a girl named Olive
+Agar. You have never heard from her or of her?"
+
+"Never."
+
+"Ah," he sighed, "I have been to Siena. There was some affair--early
+in September she came to Florence, to the Lorenzoni of all people in
+the world."
+
+Hilaire whistled.
+
+"Yes, I know," the younger man said gloomily, as though he had spoken.
+"That woman! What she must have suffered in these months! Well, she
+left them suddenly at the beginning of November."
+
+"Where is she now?"
+
+"That's just it. I don't know."
+
+"Why did she leave Siena?"
+
+"There was some trouble--a bad business," he answered reluctantly.
+"She lived with some cousins, and one of them committed suicide. She
+came away to escape the horror and all the talk, I suppose."
+
+"Ah, I need not ask why she left the Lorenzoni woman. No girl in her
+senses would stay an hour longer than she could help with her."
+
+"Hilaire, I think I half hoped to see her at the concert yesterday.
+When I came on the platform I looked for her, and I am sure I should
+have seen her in that crowd if she had been there. She is different,
+somehow. I played like a machine for the first time in my life, I
+think, and during the interval the manager asked me why I had not
+given the nocturne that was down on the programme. I said something
+about a necessary alteration at the last moment, but I don't know now
+what I did play. I was thinking of her. A girl alone has a bad time in
+this world."
+
+"You are going to find her? Is she in love with you?"
+
+Jean flushed. "I can't answer that."
+
+"That's all right. What I really wanted to know was if you cared for
+her. I see you do. Oh, Lord!" The older man sighed heavily as he put
+down his coffee-cup. "I wish you would play to me."
+
+Jean went into the music-room, leaving the folding doors between open,
+and sat down at the piano. There was no light but the moon's, and
+Hilaire saw the beloved head dark against the silvery grey of the wall
+beyond. The skilled hands let loose a torrent of harmonies.
+
+"Damn women!" said Hilaire, under cover of the fortissimo.
+
+He spent some hours in the library on the following day re-arranging
+and dusting his books, lingering over them, reading a page here and
+there, patting their old vellum-bound backs fondly before he returned
+them to their shelves. They absorbed him, and yet the footman bringing
+in his tea on a tray heard him saying, "I must not worry."
+
+Jean had always come to him with his troubles ever since he was a
+child, and the worst of all had been brought about by a woman. That
+was years ago now. Hilaire had been away from England, and he had
+come back to find his brother aged and altered--and married.
+
+They had got on so well together without women in these latter years
+that Hilaire had hoped they might live and die in peace, but it seemed
+that it was not to be. Jean had gone out again in the car to look for
+his Olive. Well, if she made him happy Hilaire thought they might get
+on very well after all. But he had forebodings, and later, he sat
+frowning at the white napery and glittering glass and silver reflected
+in the polished walnut wood of his well-appointed table, and he
+refused soup and fish with unnecessary violence. Jean loved this girl
+and she could make him happy if she would, but would she? She was
+evidently not of a "coming-on disposition"; she was good, and Jean
+was, unfortunately, still married to the other.
+
+It had been raining all day. The wind moaned in the trees and sighed
+in the chimney, and now and again the blazing logs on the hearth
+hissed as drops fell on them from above.
+
+"There is a good fire in the signorino's dressing-room, I hope. He has
+been out all day, and it is so stormy that--"
+
+"The signorino has come in, _eccellenza_. He--he brought a lady with
+him. She seemed faint and ill, and I sent for the gardener's wife to
+come and look after her. I have given her the blue room, and the
+housekeeper is with her now. She was busy with the dinner when she
+first came." The old butler rubbed his hands together.
+
+"I hope I did right," he said after a pause.
+
+Hilaire roused himself. "Oh, quite right, of course. She will want
+something to eat."
+
+"I have sent up a tray--"
+
+"Ah, when?"
+
+"He--here he is."
+
+The old man drew back as Jean came in. "I am sorry to be late,
+Hilaire."
+
+"It does not matter."
+
+Thereafter both sat patiently waiting for the end of a dinner that
+seemed age-long. When, at last, they were alone Jean rose to his feet;
+he was very pale and his brown eyes glittered.
+
+"Did Stefano tell you? I have found her and brought her here."
+
+"Oh, she has come, has she?"
+
+"You think less of her for that. Ah, you will misjudge her until you
+know her. Wait."
+
+He hurried out of the room.
+
+Hilaire stood on the hearth with his back to the fire. He repeated his
+formula, but there was a not unkindly light in his tired eyes, and
+when presently the door was opened and the girl came in he smiled.
+
+The club foot, of which he was nervously conscious at times, held him
+to his place, but she came forward until she was close to him.
+
+"You are his brother," she began. "I--what a good fire."
+
+She knelt down on the bear skin and stretched her hands to the blaze.
+Hilaire noticed that she was excessively thin; the rose-flushed cheeks
+were hollow and the curves of the sweet cleft chin too sharp. He
+looked at her as she crouched at his feet; the nape of the slim neck
+showed a very pure white against the shabby black of her dress, there
+were fine threads of gold in the soft brown tangle of her hair.
+
+Jean was dragging one of the great armchairs closer.
+
+"You are cold," he said anxiously. "Come and sit here."
+
+She rose obediently.
+
+"Have you had any dinner?" asked Hilaire.
+
+"Yes; they brought me some soup in my room. I am not hungry now."
+
+She spoke very simply, like a child. Jean had rifled all the other
+chairs to provide her with a sufficiency of cushions, and now he
+brought her a footstool.
+
+"I think I must take my shoes off," she said. "So cold--you see they
+let the water in, and--"
+
+"Take them off at once," ordered Hilaire, and he watched, still with
+that faint smile in his eyes, as Jean knelt to do his bidding.
+
+"That's very nice," sighed the girl. "I never knew before that real
+happiness is just having lots to eat and being warm."
+
+The two men looked at each other.
+
+"I have often wondered about you," she said to Hilaire presently.
+"Your eyes are just like his. I think if I had known that I should
+have had to come before; but you see I promised Cardinal Jacopo of
+Portugal--in San Miniato--that I would not. What am I talking about?"
+Her voice broke and she covered her face with her hands.
+
+"Oh, my God!" Jean would have gone to her, but his brother laid a
+restraining hand on his arm.
+
+"Leave her alone," he said. "She will be all right to-morrow. It's
+only excitement, nervous exhaustion. She must rest and eat. Wait
+quietly and don't look at her."
+
+Jean moved restlessly about the room; Hilaire, gravely silent, seemed
+to see nothing.
+
+So the two men waited until the girl was able to control her sobs.
+
+"I am so sorry," she said presently. "I have made you uncomfortable;
+forgive me."
+
+"Will you take a brandy-and-soda if I give it you?"
+
+"Yes, if you think it will do me good."
+
+Hilaire limped across to the sideboard. He was scarcely gone half a
+minute, but when he came back with a glass of the mixture he had
+prescribed he saw his brother kneeling at the girl's side, his arms
+about her, his face hidden in the folds of her skirt.
+
+"Jean! Get up!" he said very sharply. "Pull yourself together."
+
+Olive sat stiffly erect; her swollen, tear-stained lids hid the blue
+eyes, her pale, quivering lips formed words that were inaudible.
+
+Hilaire ground his teeth. "Get up!"
+
+After a while the lover loosed his hold; he bent to kiss the girl's
+feet; then he rose and went silently out of the room. Hilaire listened
+for the closing of another door before he rang the bell.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+For some days and nights Olive lived only to eat and sleep. When she
+woke it was to hear a kind old voice urging her to take hot milk or
+soup, to see a kind old face framed in white hair set off by black
+lace lappets; and yet whenever she closed her eyes at first she was
+aware of a passionate aching echo of words said that was sad as the
+sound of the sea in a shell. "I love you--I love you--" until at last
+sleep helped to knit up the ravelled sleave of care.
+
+Every morning there were fresh roses for her.
+
+"The signorino hopes you are better."
+
+"Oh, much better, thank you." And after a while a day came when she
+felt really strong enough to get up. She dressed slowly and came down
+and out on to the terrace. The crumbling stones of the balustrade were
+moss-grown, as was the slender body of the bronze Mercury, poised for
+flight and dark against the pale illimitable blue of the December sky.
+Hilaire Avenel never tried to make Nature neat; the scarlet leaves of
+the Virginia creeper came fluttering down and were scattered on the
+worn black and white mosaic of the pavement; they showed like fire
+flickering in the sombre green of the cypresses. Beyond and below the
+garden, the olive and ilex woods, and the steep red roofs of
+Settignano, lay Florence, a city of the plain, and wreathed in a
+delicate mist. There was the great dome of Santa Maria dei Fiori; the
+tortuous silver streak that was Arno, spanned by her bridges; there
+was Giotto's tower, golden-white and rose golden, there the campanile
+of the Badia, the grim old Bargello, and the battlemented walls of the
+Palazzo Vecchio; farther still, across the river, the heights of San
+Miniato al Monte, Bellosguardo, and Mont' Oliveto, cypress crowned.
+
+Two white rough-coated sheep-dogs came rushing up the steps from the
+garden to greet Olive with sharp barks of joy, and Hilaire was not
+slow to follow. Olive still thought him very like his brother, an
+older and greyer Jean.
+
+"I have been so looking forward to showing you the garden," he said
+hurriedly in his kind eagerness to put her at her ease. "There are
+still a few late chrysanthemums, and you will find blue and white
+violets in the grass by the sundial."
+
+They passed down the steps together and through the green twilight of
+the orange groves, and came to a little fountain in the midst of a
+space of lawn set about with laurels. Hilaire threw a biscuit into
+the pool, and the dark water gleamed with silver and gold as the fish
+rushed at it.
+
+"I flatter myself that all the living things in this garden know me,"
+he said. "I bar the plainer kinds of insects and scorpions, of course;
+but the small green lizards are charming, aren't they?"
+
+"Mamie Whittaker had one on a gold chain. She used to wear it
+sometimes."
+
+"She would," he said drily. "The young savage! Better go naked than
+torture harmless things."
+
+"This place is perfect," sighed Olive; and then, "You have no home in
+France?"
+
+"We should have; but our great-grandfather was guillotined in Paris
+during the Terror, and his wife and child came to England. Years
+later, when they might have gone back they would not. Why should they?
+Napoleon had given the Avenel estates to one of his ruffians, who had
+since seceded to the Bourbon and so made all secure. Besides, they
+were happy enough. Marie Louis Hilaire gave music lessons, and the
+Marquise scrubbed and cooked and patched their clothes--she, who had
+been the Queen's friend, and so they managed to keep the little home
+together. Presently the young man married, and then Jean Marie
+appeared on the scene. We have a picture of him at the age of five, in
+a nankeen frock and a frill. Our mother was a Hungarian--hence Jean's
+music, I suppose--and there is Romany blood on that side. These are
+our antecedents. You will not be surprised at our vagaries now?"
+
+Olive smiled. "No, I shall remember the red heels of Versailles,
+English bread and butter, and the gipsy caravan."
+
+"Jean has fetched your books from the Monte di Pieta. Marietta found
+the tickets in your coat pocket. You don't mind?"
+
+Looking at her he saw her eyes fill with tears, and he hurried on: "No
+rubbish, I notice. Are you fond of reading?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I was wondering if you would care to undertake a work for me."
+
+"I should be glad to do anything," she said anxiously.
+
+"I have some thousands of books in the villa. Those I have collected
+myself I know--they are all in the library--but there are many that
+were left me by my father, and others that came from an uncle, and
+they are all piled up in heaps in the empty rooms on the second floor.
+I want someone to sort them out, catalogue, and arrange them for me.
+Would you care to do it?"
+
+"Yes, indeed."
+
+"That's all right then," he said hastily. "I'll get a carpenter in at
+once to put up some more shelves ready for them. And I think you had
+better stay on in the villa, if you don't mind. It will be more
+convenient. The salary will be two hundred lire a month, paid in
+advance."
+
+"Your kindness--I can't express my gratitude--" she began tremulously.
+
+"Nonsense! This is a business transaction, and I am coming out of it
+very well. I should not get a man to do the work for that absurdly
+small sum. I am underpaying you on purpose because I hate women."
+
+Olive laughed. "Commend me to misogynists henceforth."
+
+She wanted to begin at once, but her host assured her that he would
+rather she waited until the shelves were put up.
+
+"You will have to sort them out several times, according to date,
+language and subject. Perhaps Jean can help you when he returns. He is
+away just now."
+
+Watching her, he saw the deepening of the rose.
+
+"I--I can't remember exactly what happened the night I came, Mr
+Avenel. You know I had not been able to find work, and though my
+_padrona_ was kind she was very poor too. She pawned my things for me,
+but they fetched so little, and I had not had anything to eat for ever
+so long when he came. He has not gone away because of me, has he?"
+
+Hilaire threw the fish another biscuit; it fell among the lily leaves
+at the feet of the weather-stained marble nymph of the fountain.
+
+"I must decline to answer," he said gravely, after a pause. "I
+understand that you are twenty-three and old enough therefore to judge
+for yourself, and I do not intend to influence either you or Jean, if
+I can help it. You will be perfectly free to do exactly what you think
+right, my dear girl. I will only give you one bit of advice, and that
+is, look at life with your eyes wide open. Don't blink! This is
+Friday, and Jean is coming to see you on Wednesday."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+
+Olive told herself that Hilaire was very good to her in the days that
+followed. He came sometimes into the room where she was, to find her
+sitting on the floor amid the piles of books she was trying to reduce
+to some kind of order.
+
+"You do not get tired? I am afraid they are rather dusty."
+
+"Oh, not at all," she assured him. She was swathed in a blue linen
+apron of Marietta's and had tied a cotton handkerchief over her hair.
+"I like to feel I am doing something for you," she said. "I wish--you
+have been--you are so kind."
+
+On the Wednesday morning she covered some of the books with brown
+paper and pasted labels on their backs. She tried not to listen for
+the creaking of the great gates as they swung open, for the grating of
+wheels against the stones, for Jean's voice calling to his brother,
+for his quick step upon the stair, but she heard all as she wrote
+_Vita Nuova_ on the slip intended for an early edition of the _Rape of
+the Lock_, and put the _Decameron_ aside with some sermons and
+commentaries that were to be classified as devotional literature. He
+did not come to her then, but she was desperately afraid that he
+might. "I am not ready ... not ..."
+
+When, later, she came into the dining-room she seemed to be perfectly
+at her ease. Jean's eyes had been fixed on the door, and they met hers
+eagerly as she came forward. "Are you better?" he asked, and then bit
+his lip, thinking he had said the wrong thing.
+
+"Oh, yes. But--but you look pale and thinner."
+
+Her little air of gay indifference fell away from her. As he still
+held her hand she felt the tears coming and longed to be able to run
+upstairs and take some more sal volatile, but Hilaire came to the
+rescue.
+
+"Well, let's have lunch," he said. "I hate tepid food."
+
+When they had taken their places Jean gave the girl a letter.
+
+"It came for you to the Lorenzoni. I called at the porter's lodge this
+morning and Ser Gigia gave it me."
+
+"Such a waste of good things I never saw," the butler said afterwards
+to his wife. "As you know, the _padrone_ never eats more than enough
+to fill a bird, but I have seen the signorino hungry, and the young
+lady too. To-day, however, they ate nothing, though the _frittata_ was
+fit to melt in one's mouth. I should not have been ashamed to set it
+before the Archangel Gabriel, and he would have eaten it, since it is
+certain that the Blessed One has never been in love."
+
+After the meal, to which no one indeed had done justice, Hilaire
+explained that he was going to write some letters.
+
+The younger man looked at Olive. "Come with me," he said abruptly. "I
+want to play to you."
+
+"I want to hear you," she said as she rose from the table.
+
+He followed her into the music-room and shut the door. "Well?"
+
+She chose to misunderstand him. "It is charming. Just what a shrine of
+sound should be."
+
+The grand piano stood out from the grey-green background of the walls
+beyond, there was a bronze statuette of Orpheus with his lute on a
+twisted Byzantine column of white and gold mosaic, and a long
+cushioned divan set on one side broke the long lines of light on the
+polished floor.
+
+"What are you going to play?" she asked.
+
+"Nothing, at present," he said, smiling at her. "I want to talk to you
+first. You are not frightened?"
+
+"No." She sat on the divan and he stood before her, looking down into
+her eyes.
+
+"I think I had better try to tell you about my wife," he said. "May I
+sit here? And may I smoke?"
+
+"Yes." She drew her skirts aside to make room for him next to her. "I
+want to hear you," she said again.
+
+"Imagine me, a boy of twenty-two, convalescing in country lodgings
+after an illness that seemed to have taken the marrow out of my bones.
+Hilaire was in Japan, and I--a callow fledgling from the nest--was
+very sick and sorry for myself. There were some people living in
+rather a large house at the other end of the village who took notice
+of me. They were the only ones, and I have thought since that my
+acquaintance with them really did for me with everyone else. They were
+not desirable--but--well, I was too young, and just then too
+physically weak to avoid their more pressing attentions. Old Seldon
+was one of those flushed, swollen men whose collars seem always to be
+too small for them. He tried to be pleasant, but it was not a great
+success. There were two daughters at home, and Gertrude was the
+eldest. She had been married, and the man had died, leaving her
+penniless. As you may suppose she had not come back to veal. I was
+sorry for her then because she seemed a good sort, and she was very
+kind to me; she was five years my senior--"
+
+"Go on," Olive said.
+
+"I used to go to the house nearly every evening. She sang well, and I
+used to play her accompaniments, while the old man hung about the
+sideboard. He never left us alone, and the younger girl, Violet, used
+to meet the rector's son in the stables then. I heard that afterwards.
+They lived anyhow, and owed money to all the tradespeople round.
+
+"One night I was awakened by a knocking outside; my landlady slept at
+the back, and she was deaf besides, so I went down myself. The wind
+put my candle out as I opened the door, but I saw a woman standing
+there in the rain, and I asked her what she wanted. She made no
+answer, but pushed past me into the passage, and went into my
+sitting-room. I followed, of course.
+
+"Well, perhaps you have guessed that it was Gertrude. Her yellow hair
+hung down and about her face; she was only half dressed, and her bare
+arms and shoulders were all wet. Her skirts were torn and stained with
+mud. She told me her father had turned her out of the house in a
+drunken fury and she had come to me. Even then I wondered why she had
+not gone to some woman--surely she might have found shelter--however,
+she had come to me. I was going to call up my landlady, but she would
+not allow it because she said that no one but I need ever know. She
+would creep home through the fields soon after sunrise and her sister
+would let her in. The old man would be sleeping heavily.... The end of
+it was that I let her go up to my room while I lay on the sofa in the
+little parlour. The horsehair bolster was deucedly hard, but I was
+young, and when I did get off I slept well. When I woke it was nearer
+eight than seven, and I had just scrambled up when my landlady came
+in. One look at her face was enough. I understood that Gertrude had
+overslept herself too.
+
+"The sequel was hateful. There was a frightful scandal, of course; the
+father raved, the women cried, the rector talked to me seriously,
+and--Olive, mark this--Gertrude would not say anything. I married her
+and we came away."
+
+"It was a trap," cried Olive.
+
+"We had not one single thing in common, and you know when there is no
+love sex is a barrier set up by the devil between human souls. After
+some years of mutual misery I brought her here. Poor Hilaire has hated
+respectable women ever since--she was that, if that counts when there
+is nothing else. Just virtue, with no saving graces. She is living in
+London now, is much esteemed, and regularly exceeds her allowance."
+
+"Was she pretty?"
+
+Jean had let his pipe go out, and now he relit it. "Oh, yes," he said,
+"I suppose so. Frizzy hair and all that. I fancy she has grown stout
+now. She is the kind that spreads."
+
+"Life is all so hateful," sighed the girl. Jean moved away from her
+and went to the window. Hilaire was limping across the terrace
+towards the garden steps. When he was gone out of sight Jean came back
+into the room.
+
+"My brother is unhappy too. The woman he loved died. Oh, Olive, are we
+to be lonely always because the law will not give me a divorce from
+the woman who was never really my wife, never dear to me or near to me
+as you are? Joy is within our reach, a golden rose on the tree of
+life, and it is for you to gather it or to hold your hand. Don't
+answer me yet for God's sake. Wait!"
+
+He went to the piano and opened it.
+
+Rain ... rain dripping on the roof through the long hours of night,
+and the weary moaning of the wakeful wind. Thronging memories of past
+years, past youth, past joy, past laughter echoing and re-echoing in
+one man's hungry heart. Light footsteps of children never to be born
+... and then the heavy tread of men carrying a coffin, and the last
+sound of all--the clanging of an iron door....
+
+The grave ... the grave ... it held the boy who had loved her, and
+presently, surely, it would hold this man too, sealing his kind lips
+with earth, closing his brown eyes in an eternal darkness.
+
+He played, as thousands had said, divinely, not only with his hands
+but with his soul. The music that had been a work of genius became a
+miracle when he interpreted it, and indeed it seemed that virtue went
+out of him. His face was drawn and pale and a pulse beat in his cheek.
+Olive, gazing at him through a blur of tears, knew that she had never
+longed for anything in her life as she longed now to comfort this pain
+expressed in ripples, and low murmurings, and great crashing waves of
+the illimitable sea of sound. Her heart ached with the pity that is a
+woman's way of loving, and as he left the piano she rose too. He
+uttered a sort of cry as she swayed towards him, and clasped her in
+his arms.
+
+"I love you," he said, his lips so close to hers that she felt rather
+than heard the words.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+
+Jean came to the villa a little before noon on the following day.
+Hilaire, who was in the library, heard his voice in the hall calling
+the dogs, heard him whistling some little song tune as he opened and
+shut all the doors one after the other.
+
+    "'_O l'amor e' come un nocciuola
+      Se non se apre non si puo mangiarla--_'"
+
+"Hilaire, where are you? I thought I should find you on the terrace
+this fine morning. Where is she?" he added eagerly as he laid a great
+bunch of roses down on the table. "Is her headache better? Has not she
+come down yet?"
+
+He looked across the room to where his brother's grey head just showed
+above the high carved back of his chair.
+
+"Hilaire! Why don't you answer?"
+
+In the silence that ensued he distinctly heard the ticking of the
+clock on the mantelpiece and the falling of the soft wood ashes in the
+grate; the beating of his own heart sounded loud to him. One of the
+dogs was scratching at the door and whining to be let in.
+
+"Hilaire."
+
+"She is gone."
+
+"Gone?"
+
+"Yes. She left this letter for you."
+
+"Ah, give it to me." He opened and read it hurriedly.
+
+"I thought you meant dead at first," he said. His brown eyes had lost
+the light that had been in them and were melancholy as before; he
+stood still by the table looking down upon his roses. They would fade,
+and she would never see them now. Never ... never ...
+
+"Come and sit by the fire and let's talk it over quietly," said
+Hilaire. "Oh, damn women," he mumbled as he drew at his pipe--the
+fifth that morning. It was the first time in a week that he had
+uttered his pet expletive. "What does she say?"
+
+"You can read her letter."
+
+"Would she mind?"
+
+"Oh, no," Jean said bitterly. "She loves you--what she calls
+loving--next best after me. She told me so."
+
+Hilaire carefully smoothed the crumpled, blotted page out on his knee.
+
+    "MY DEAREST JEAN,--I am going away because I am a
+    coward. I dare not live with you, and I dare not ask you
+    to forgive me. Last night as I lay awake I thought and
+    thought about my feeling for you and I was sure that it
+    was love. I used to think of you often last summer and
+    to wonder where you were and what you were doing, and I
+    hoped you had not forgotten me. I did not love you then,
+    but I suppose my thoughts of you kept my heart's door
+    open for you, and certainly they helped to keep out
+    someone else who came and tried to get admittance. Oh,
+    one must suffer to keep love perfect, but isn't it worth
+    while? You may not believe me now when I say that if I
+    cared for you less I should stay, but it is true. Oh,
+    Jean, even when we were so happy for a few minutes
+    yesterday something in me looked beyond into the years
+    to come and was afraid. Not of you; I trust you,
+    dearest; but of the world. Men would stare at me and
+    laugh and whisper together, and women would look away,
+    and I know I should not be able to bear it. I am not
+    brave like that. Oh, every word I write must hurt you, I
+    know. Remember that I love you now and shall always.
+    Good-bye.--Your
+
+                    "OLIVE."
+
+"I should keep this."
+
+"I am going to. Hilaire, did you know she was going? Did she tell
+you?"
+
+The older man answered quietly: "Yes, I knew, and I sent her to the
+station in the motor. I had promised a strict neutrality, Jean, and
+she was right to go. Some women, good women, may be strong enough to
+bear all the suffering that is entailed upon them by a known
+irregularity in their lives. She is not. It would probably have killed
+her though I am not saying that she would not have been happy
+sometimes, when she could forget her shame."
+
+Jean flinched as though his brother had struck him. "Don't use that
+word."
+
+"Well, what else would it be? What else would the world call it? And
+women listen to what the world says. 'Good name in man or woman is the
+immediate jewel of their souls'; Othello said something like that, and
+it's often true. Besides, you know, this woman is pure in herself, and
+from what she told me I understand that she has seen something of the
+seamy side of love lately--enough to inspire her with dread. She is
+afraid, and her fear is exquisite; a very fine and rare thing. It is
+the bloom on the fruit and should not be brushed off with an ungentle
+hand. Poor child! Don't blame her as she blames herself or I shall
+begin to think she is too good for you."
+
+Jean sat leaning forward staring into the fire.
+
+"Do you realise that when I brought her here it was from starvation in
+a garret? Where is she going? What will she do? Oh, God! The poor
+little slender body! Do you remember she said it was happiness just to
+be warm and have enough to eat?"
+
+"That's all right," Hilaire said hastily. "She is going to a good
+woman, a friend she made in Siena. The letter you brought was from
+her, and she wrote to say she had been ill and wished Olive could come
+and be with her for a while."
+
+"I see! And she was glad to get away."
+
+"My dear man, did you really think she would be so easily won? She
+loves you, and you not only made love to her yesterday afternoon; you
+played to her--I heard you--and I knew she would have to say 'Yes' to
+everything. Now she says 'No,' but you must not think she does not
+care." Hilaire got up, came across to where his brother sat, and laid
+a caressing hand on his shoulder. "Dear Jean, will it comfort you to
+hear me swear she means every word of that letter? It's not all over.
+You will come together in the end. Her poor blue eyes were drowned in
+tears--"
+
+"Oh, don't," Jean said brokenly. The hard line of his lips relaxed. He
+hid his face in his hands.
+
+Hilaire went out of the room.
+
+
+
+
+BOOK III.--ROME
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+
+Olive was alone in the compartment of the train that bore her away
+from Florence and from Jean. She had a book; it lay open on her lap,
+and she had tried to read, but the lines all ran together and the
+effort to concentrate her thoughts made her head ache. She was very
+unhappy. It seemed to her that now indeed life was emptied of all
+sweets and the taste of it was as dust and ashes in her mouth. She was
+leaving youth and joy behind; or rather, she had killed them and left
+a man to bury them. At Orvieto she nearly broke down. It would be so
+easy to get out and cross over to the other platform and there await
+the next train back to Florence. She had her hand upon the handle of
+the door when a boy with little flasks of wine in a basket came up and
+asked her to buy, and as she answered him she heard the cry of
+"_Partenza!_" It was too late; the moment had passed, and after a
+while she knew that she was glad she had not yielded. She was doing
+the right thing. What was the old French motto? "_Fais ce que doit,
+advienne que pourra._" The brave words comforted her a little. She was
+very tired, and presently she slept.
+
+She was awakened by the discordant yells of the Roman _facchini_ on
+the station platform. One of them carried her box to the office of the
+Dogana, but a large party of Americans had come by the same train and
+the officials were too busily engaged in turning over the contents of
+their innumerable Saratogas to do more than scrabble in chalk on the
+side of her shabby leather trunk and shake their heads at the
+proffered key, and soon she was in a _vettura_ clattering down the
+wide new Via Nazionale.
+
+Signora de Sanctis lived with her sister in one of the old streets in
+the lower part of the city near the Pantheon--the Via Arco della
+Ciambella. The houses there are built on the foundations of the Baths
+of Agrippa, and a brick arch, part of the great Tepidarium, remains to
+give the street its name. The poor fragment has been Christianised; a
+wayside altar sanctifies it, and a little painted shrine to the
+Madonna adorns the base. The buildings on that side are small and mean
+and overshadowed by the great yellow palace of the Spinola opposite.
+Olive's friends lived over a wine shop, but the entrance was some way
+down the street.
+
+"Fortunately, my dear," as they remarked, "though really the place is
+very quiet. People go outside the gates to get drunk."
+
+Both the women seemed glad to see her. Her room was ready and a meal
+had been prepared and the cloth laid at one end of the work-table. The
+younger sister was a dressmaker too, and the floor was strewn with
+scraps of lining and silk. A white dress lay on the sofa, carefully
+folded and covered with a sheet of tissue paper.
+
+"You look tired, Olive. Were you not happy in Florence?"
+
+The girl admitted that the Lorenzoni had not been very kind to her.
+She had left them and had been living on her savings. It had been hard
+to find other employment. "I want to work," she said. "You will let me
+help you, and I hope to get lessons."
+
+She asked to be allowed to wash the plates and dishes and put them
+away in the tiny kitchen. She was in a mood to bear anything better
+than the idleness that left room for her own sad thoughts, and she
+wished that they would let her do some sewing. "I am not good at
+needlework, but I can hem and put on buttons," she pleaded.
+
+Signora Giulia smiled at her. She was small, and she had a pale,
+dragged look and many lines about her weak eyes. "No, thank you, my
+dear. I have a girl apprentice who comes during the day, and I do the
+cutting out and designing and the embroidery myself. You must not
+tire yourself in the kitchen either. We have an old woman in to do
+_mezzo servizio_."
+
+It was nine o'clock, and the narrow streets were echoing now to the
+hoarse cries of the newsvendors: "_Tribuna!_" "_Tribuna!_"
+
+"I will go and unpack then, and to-morrow I shall find some registry
+offices and try to get English lessons."
+
+"Yes, go, _nina_, and sleep well. You look tired. You must get
+stronger while you are with us."
+
+For a long time she could not sleep. In the summer she had played with
+the thought of love, and then she had been able to close her eyes and
+feel Jean Avenel close beside her, leaning towards her, saying that
+she must not be afraid, that he would not hurt her. It had been a sort
+of game, a childish game of make-believe that seemed to hurt no one,
+not even herself. But now she was hurt indeed; the remembrance of his
+kisses ached upon her lips.
+
+When Tor di Rocca had asked her to go away with him she had felt that
+it might be worth while, that it would be pleasant to be cared for and
+loved, to eat and drink and die on the morrow, but the man himself had
+been nothing to her. A means to an end.
+
+She had been wholly a creature of blind instincts, the will to live,
+to creep out of the dark into the sunshine that is inherent in the
+animal, fighting against that other impulse, trying to root up that
+white fragile flower, watered throughout the centuries with blood and
+tears and rare and precious ointment, that thorn in some women's
+hearts, their pale ideal of inviolate purity.
+
+The spirit had warred against the flesh, and the spirit had won then
+and now. It had won, but not finally. She was dismayed to find that
+temptation was a recurrent thing. Every morning when she woke it
+returned to her. It would be so easy to write "Dearest, come to me."
+It would be so easy to make him happy. She thought little of herself
+now and much of Jean. Would he stay on with his brother or go away
+again? Had she hurt him very much? Would he forget her? Or hate her?
+
+During the day she trudged the streets of Rome and grew to know them
+well. Here, as in Florence, no one wanted to pay for learning, no one
+wanted an English girl for anything apparently. If she had been Swiss,
+and so able to speak three languages incorrectly, she might have found
+a place as nursery-governess; as it was, the people in the registry
+offices grew tired of her and she was afraid to go to them too often.
+
+There was little for her to do in the house. The old woman who came in
+did the cleaning, and they lived on bread and _ricotta_ cheese and a
+cabbage soup that was easily prepared, but sometimes she was able to
+help with the sewing, and now and then she was allowed to take the
+finished work home.
+
+"It is not fit! They will take you for an apprentice, a _sartina_."
+
+Olive laughed rather mirthlessly at that. "I am not proud," she said.
+
+"I sat up until two last night to finish the Contessa's dress. She is
+always in a hurry. If only she would pay what she owes," sighed the
+dressmaker.
+
+Olive promised to bring the money back with her, and she waited a long
+while in the stuffy passage of the Contessa's flat. There were
+imitation Abyssinian trophies on the walls, lances and daggers and
+shields of lathe and cardboard and painted paper. The husband was an
+artillery captain, and his sword stood with the umbrellas in the rack,
+the only real thing in that pretentious armoury.
+
+The Contessa came out to her presently. She was a large woman, and as
+she was angry she seemed to swell and redden and gobble as turkeys do.
+
+"Are you the _giovinetta_? You will take this dress away. It is not
+fit to put on." She held the bodice in her hand, and as she spoke she
+shook it in Olive's face. "The stitches are all awry; they are
+enormous; and half the embroidery is blue and the other half green. I
+shall make her pay for the material. The dress is ruined, and it is
+the last she shall make for me. She must pay me, and you must tell her
+so."
+
+Olive collected her scattered wits. "If the Signora Contessa would
+allow me to look," she said.
+
+The stitches were very large, and her heart sank as she examined them.
+The poor women had toiled so over this work, stooping over it,
+straining their tired eyes. "I think we can alter it to your
+satisfaction, but I must ask you to be indulgent, signora. I will
+bring it back the day after to-morrow, if that will suit you." She
+folded the bodice carefully and wrapped it in the piece of paper she
+had brought it in, fastening the four corners with pins.
+
+"The skirt goes well?"
+
+"It will do," the Contessa admitted as she turned away. "Anacleto!"
+
+A slender, dark-eyed youth emerged from the shadows at the far end of
+the passage, bringing a sound and smell of frying with him. His bare
+brown arms were floury and he wiped them on his striped cotton apron
+as he came forward to open the door. He wore a white camellia thrust
+behind one ear.
+
+"It would be convenient--Signora Manara would be glad if you could pay
+part of her account," faltered Olive.
+
+The Contessa stopped short. "I could, but I will not," she said
+emphatically. "She does her work too badly."
+
+The young servant grinned at the girl as she passed out. She was
+half-way down the stairs when he came out on to the landing and leaned
+over the banisters.
+
+"Never! Never!" he called down to her. "They never pay anyone. I am
+leaving to-morrow."
+
+The white camellia dropped at her feet. She smiled involuntarily as
+she stooped to gather up the token. "Men are rather dears."
+
+She met Ser Giulia coming down the stairs of their house. The little
+woman looked quickly at the bundle she carried as she asked why it had
+been brought back.
+
+"She wants it altered! _Dio mio!_ And I worked so hard at it. How much
+of the money has she given you?"
+
+"She has given nothing; I hope she will pay when I take the work
+back."
+
+But the other began to cry. "Perhaps the stitches are large," she
+said, sobbing. "I know my eyes are weak. No one will pay me, and I owe
+the baker more than ten lire. Soon we shall have to beg our bread in
+the streets."
+
+"Don't," Olive said hurriedly. "Don't. I have been with you more than
+a month and I have not found work yet, but I will not be a burden to
+you much longer. I shall find something to do soon and then you need
+not do so much and we shall manage better."
+
+"Oh, child, I know you do your best."
+
+"Don't cry then. I will get money somehow. Don't be afraid."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+
+Olive sat idly on one of the benches near the great wall in the
+Pincian gardens. She had been to an office in the Piazza di Spagna and
+had there been assured for the seventh time that there was nothing on
+the books. "If the signorina were a cook now, there are many people in
+need of cooks," the young man behind the counter had said smilingly,
+and she had thanked him and come away. What else could she do?
+
+It was getting late, and a fading light filtered through the bare
+interwoven branches of the planes. The shadows were lengthening in the
+avenues and grass-bordered paths where the seminarists had been
+walking in twos and threes among the playing children. They were gone
+now, the grave-faced young men in their black soutanes and broad
+beaver hats; all the people were gone.
+
+"O Pasquina! _Birichina!_"
+
+Olive, turning her head, saw a young woman and a child coming towards
+her. The little thing was clinging to its mother's skirts, stumbling
+at every step, whining to be taken up, and now she dropped the white
+rabbit muff and the doll she was carrying into a puddle.
+
+"O Pasquina!"
+
+The child stared open-mouthed as Olive came forward and stooped to
+pick up the fallen treasures, and though tears were running down her
+little face she made no outcry.
+
+"See, the beautiful lady helps you," the mother said hastily, and she
+sat down on the bench at Olive's side and lifted the baby on to her
+lap to comfort her.
+
+"She is tired. We have been to the Campo Marzo to buy her a fine hat
+with white feathers," she explained.
+
+Olive looked at her with interest. She was not at all pretty; her
+round snubby face was red and she had a bruise on her chin, and yet
+she was somehow attractive. Her small, twinkling blue eyes were so
+kind, and her hair was beautiful, smooth, shining, and yellow as
+straw. She wore no hat.
+
+Her name was Rosina. The signorino was always very good, and he gave
+her an afternoon off when she asked for it. On Christmas night, for
+instance, she had drunk too much wine, and she had fallen down in the
+street and hurt herself. The next day her head ached so, and when the
+signorino saw she was not well he said she might go home and sleep.
+She had been working for him six weeks. What work? She seemed
+surprised at the question.
+
+"I am a model. My face is ugly, as you see," she said in her simple,
+straightforward way; "but otherwise I am beautiful, and I can always
+get work with sculptors. The signorino is an American and he has an
+unpronounceable name. He is doing me as Eve, crouched on the ground
+and hiding my head in my arms. After the Fall, you know. Have you been
+to the Andreoni gallery? There is a statuette of me there called
+'Morning.' This is the pose."
+
+She clasped her hands together behind her head, raising her chin a
+little. Olive observed the smooth long throat, the exquisite lines of
+the shoulders and breast and hips. Pasquina slipped off her mother's
+knees.
+
+"Are you well paid?"
+
+"It depends on the artist. Some are so poor that they cannot give, and
+others will not. The schools allow fifteen soldi an hour, but the
+signorino is paying me twenty-five soldi. In the evenings I sing and
+dance at a _caffe_ near the station."
+
+Olive hesitated. "Do--do artists ever want models dressed?"
+
+Rosina looked at her quickly. "Oh, yes, when they are as pretty as you
+are. But you are well educated--one sees that--it is not fit work for
+such as you."
+
+"Never mind that," Olive said eagerly. "How does one begin being a
+model? I will try that. Will you help me?"
+
+Rosina beamed at her. "_Sicuro!_ We will go to Varini's school in the
+Corso if you like. The woman in the newspaper kiosk in the Piazza di
+Spagna knows me, and I can leave Pasquina with her. _An'iamo!_"
+
+The two girls went together down the wide, shallow steps of the
+Trinita dei Monti with the child between them.
+
+Poor little Pasquina was the outward and visible sign of her mother's
+inward and hopelessly material gracelessness; she symbolised the great
+gulf fixed between smirched Roman Rosina and Jean's English rose in
+their different understanding of their own hearts' uses. Olive
+believed love to be the way to heaven; Rosina knew it, or thought she
+knew it, as a means of livelihood.
+
+The model was very evidently not only familiar with the studios. The
+cabmen on the rank in the piazza hailed her with cries of "Rosi"; she
+was greeted by beggars at the street corners, dustmen, _carabinieri_,
+crossing-sweepers, and Olive was not wholly unembarrassed. Yet Rosina
+escaped the vulgarity of some who might be called her betters as the
+world goes by being simply natural. When she was amused she laughed
+aloud, when she was tired she yawned as openly and flagrantly as any
+duchess. In manners extremes meet, and the giggle and the sneer are
+the disastrous half measures of the ill-bred, the social greasers.
+Rosina had never been sly in her life; she was ever as simply without
+shame as Eve before the Fall, and lawless because she knew no law. The
+darkness of Northern cities is tainted and cold and cannot bring forth
+such kindly things as the _rosine_--little roses--that spring up in
+the warm, sweet Roman dust.
+
+"Here is Varini's."
+
+They passed through a covered passage into a little garden overgrown
+with laurels and gnarled old pepper trees; there was a fountain with
+gold fish, and green arums were springing up about a broken faun's
+head set on a pedestal of _verd' antico_. Some men were standing
+together in the path, a pretty dark-eyed peasant girl with them. They
+all turned to stare, and the _cioccara_ put out her tongue as Olive
+went by. Rosina instantly replied in kind.
+
+"_Ohe! Fortunata! Benedetta ragazza!_ Resting as usual? Does Lorenz
+still beat you?"
+
+She described the antecedents and characteristics of Lorenz.
+
+The slower-witted country girl had a more limited vocabulary. Her eyes
+glared in the shadow of her white coif. "Ah," she gasped. "_Brutta
+bestia!_" and she turned her back.
+
+The men laughed, and Rosina laughed with them as she knocked on a
+green painted door in the wall. It was opened by a burly, bearded
+man, tweed-clad, and swathed in a stained painting apron.
+
+"Oh, _Professore_, here is a friend of mine who wants work."
+
+"Come in," he said shortly, and they followed him into a large untidy
+studio. A Pompeian fruit-seller in a black frame, a study for a
+Judgment of Paris on a draped easel, and on another easel the portrait
+of an old lady just begun. There were stacks of canvases on the floor
+and on all the chairs.
+
+"Turn to the light," the artist said brusquely; and then, as Olive
+obeyed him, "Don't be frightened. You are new, I see. You are so pink
+and white that I thought you were painted. You are not Italian?"
+
+"No."
+
+"What, then?"
+
+She was silent.
+
+He smiled. "Ah, well, it does not matter. You can come to the pavilion
+on Monday at five and sit to the evening class for a week. You
+understand? Wait a minute." He went to the door and called one of the
+young men in from the garden.
+
+"Here is a new model, Mario. I have engaged her for the evening class.
+What do you think of her?"
+
+"_Carina assai_," approved Mario. He was a round-faced, snub-nosed
+youth with clever brown eyes set very far apart, and a humorous mouth.
+"_Carina assai!_" he repeated.
+
+"Fifteen soldi the hour, from five to seven-thirty," said the
+professor. "Come a little before the time on Monday; the porter will
+show you what costume you must wear and I shall be there to pose you."
+
+"Now I shall take you to M'sieur Michelin," Rosina said when they had
+left Varini's. "He is looking for a type, and perhaps you will please
+him. He is _strano_, but good always, and he pays well."
+
+"It is not tiring you?"
+
+"_Ma che!_ I must see that you begin well and with the right people.
+Some painters are _canaglia_. Ah, I know that," the girl said with a
+little sigh and a shrug of her shoulders.
+
+They went by way of the Via Babuino across the Piazza di Spagna, and
+up the little hill past the convent of English nuns to the Villa
+Medici. Rosina rang the gate-bell, and the old braided Cerberus
+admitted them grumblingly. "You are late. But if it is M'sieur
+Camille--"
+
+Camille Michelin, bright particular star of the French Prix de Rome
+constellation, lived and worked in one of the more secluded
+garden-studios of the villa; it was deep set in the ilex wood, and the
+girls came to it by a narrow winding path, box-edged, and strewn with
+dead leaves. A light shone in one of the upper windows; the great man
+was there and he came down the creaking wooden stairs himself to open
+the door.
+
+"Who is it? Rosina? I have put away the Anthony canvas for a month
+and I will let you know when I want you again."
+
+"But, signorino, I have brought you a type."
+
+"What!" he said eagerly, in his execrable Italian. "Fresh, sweet,
+clean?"
+
+"_Sicuro._"
+
+"I do not believe you. You are lying."
+
+Camille was picturesque from the crown of his flaxen head to the soles
+of his brown boots; his pallor was interesting, his blue eyes
+remarkable; he habitually wore rust-coloured velveteen; he smoked
+cigarettes incessantly. All men who knew and loved his work saw in him
+a decadent creature of extraordinary charm; and yet, in spite of his
+"Aholibah," his "Salome," and his horribly beautiful, unfinished study
+of Fulvia piercing the tongue of Cicero, in spite of his
+Byron-cum-Baudelaire after Velasquez and Vandyke exterior he always
+managed to be quite boyishly simple and sincere.
+
+"Where is she?" Then, as his eyes met Olive's, he cried, "Not you,
+mademoiselle?" His surprise was as manifest as his pleasure. "My
+friends have sworn that I could never paint a wholesome picture. Now I
+will show them. When can you come?"
+
+"Monday morning."
+
+"Do not fail me," he implored. "Such harpies have been here to show
+themselves to me; fat, brown, loose-lipped things with purple-shadowed
+eyes. But you are perfect; divine bread-and-butter. They think they are
+clean because they have washed in soap and water, but it is the
+stainless soul I want. It must shine through my canvas as it does
+through Angelico's."
+
+"I hope I shall please you," faltered the girl. "I--I only pose
+draped."
+
+He looked at her quickly. "Very well," he said, "I will remember. It
+is your head I want. You are not Roman; have you sat to any other man
+here?"
+
+"No. I am going to Varini's in the evenings next week."
+
+"Ah! Well, don't let anyone else get hold of you. Gontrand will be
+trying to snap you up. He is so tired of the _cioccare_. What shall I
+call you?"
+
+"Nothing. I have no name."
+
+"I shall give you one. You shall be called child. Come at nine and you
+will find the door open." He fumbled in his pockets for some silver.
+"Here, Rosina, this is for the little one."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+
+The virtue that bruises not only the heel of the Evil One but the
+heart of the beloved is never its own reward. The thought of Jean's
+aching loneliness oppressed Olive far more than her own. She believed
+that she had done right in leaving him, but no consciousness of her
+own rectitude sustained her, and she was pitifully far from any sense
+of self-satisfaction. Her head hung dejectedly in the cold light of
+its aureole. Sometimes she hated herself for being one of the dull
+ninety-and-nine who never stray and who need no forgiveness, and yet
+she clung to her dear ideal of love thorn-crowned, white, and clean.
+
+She had hoped to be able to help her friends, but that hope had faded,
+and she had been very near despair. There was something pathetic now
+in her intense joy at the thought of earning a few pence. She lied to
+the kind women at home because she knew they would not understand.
+They might believe the way to the Villa Medici to be the primrose path
+that leads to everlasting fire--they probably would if they had ever
+heard of Camille. She told them she had found lessons, and the wolf
+seemed to skulk growlingly away from the door as she uttered the
+words.
+
+"You need not be afraid of the baker now," she told Ser Giulia. "He
+shall be paid at the end of the week."
+
+Her waking on the Monday morning was the happiest she had known since
+she left Florence. She was to help to make beautiful things. Her part
+would be passive; but they also serve who only stand and wait. She was
+not of those who see degradation in the lesser forms of labour. Each
+worker is needed to make the perfect whole. The men who wrought the
+gold knots and knops of the sanctuary, who wove the veil for the Holy
+of Holies, were called great, but the hewers of wood and carriers of
+water were temple builders too, even though their part was but to
+raise up scaffoldings that must come down again, or to mix the mortar
+that is unseen though it should weld the whole. Men might pass these
+toilers by in silence, but God would surely praise them.
+
+Praxiteles moulded a goddess in clay, and we still acclaim him after
+the lapse of some two thousand years. What of the woman who wearied
+and ached that his eyes might not fail to learn the least sweet curve
+of her? What of the patient craftsmen who hewed out the block of
+marble, whose eyes were inflamed, whose lungs were scarred by the
+white dust of it? They suffered for beauty's sake--not, as some might
+say, because they must eat and live. Even slaves might get bread by
+easier ways. But, very simply for beauty's sake.
+
+Olive might have soon learnt how vile such service may be in the
+studios of any of the _canaglia_ poor Rosina knew, but Camille, that
+sheep in wolf's clothing, was safe enough. What there was in him of
+perversity, of brute force, he expended in the portrayal of his subtly
+beautiful furies. His art was feverishly decadent, and those who judge
+a man by his work might suppose him to be a monster of iniquity. He
+was, in fact, an extremely clever and rather worldly-wise boy who
+loved violets and stone-pines and moonlight with poetical fervour, who
+preferred milk to champagne, and saunterings in green fields to
+gambling on green cloth.
+
+That February morning was cloudless, and Rome on her seven hills was
+flooded in sunshine. The birds were singing in the ilex wood as Olive
+passed through, and Camille was singing too in his _atelier_:
+
+    "'_Derriere chez mon pere
+      Vive la rose.'
+    Il y a un oranger
+      Vive ci, vive la!
+    Il y a un oranger,
+      Vive la rose et le lilas!_"
+
+"I was afraid you would be late."
+
+"Why?" she asked, smiling, as she came to him across the great room.
+
+"Women always are. But you are not a woman; you are an angel."
+
+He looked at her closely. The strong north light showed her smooth
+skin flawless.
+
+"The white and rose is charming," he said. "And I adore freckles. But
+your eyes are too deep; one can see that you have suffered. There is
+too much in them for the innocent baa-lamb picture I must paint."
+
+Her face fell. "I shan't do then?"
+
+"Dear child, you will," he reassured her. "I shall paint your lashes
+and not your eyes. Your lashes and a curve of pink cheek. Now go
+behind that screen and put on the sprigged cotton frock you will find
+there, with a muslin fichu and a mob cap. I have a basket of wools
+here and a piece of tapestry. The sort of woman I have never painted
+is always doing needlework."
+
+Camille spent half the morning in the arrangement of the accessories
+that were, as he said, to suggest virtuous domesticity; then he
+settled the folds of the girl's skirt, the turn of her head, her
+hands. At last, when he was satisfied, he went to his easel and began
+to work. Olive had never before realised how hard it is to keep quite
+still. The muscles of her neck ached and her face seemed to grow stiff
+and set; she felt her hands quivering.
+
+Hours seemed to pass before his voice broke the silence. "I have
+drawn it in," he announced. "You can rest now. Come down and see some
+of my pictures."
+
+He showed her his "Salome," a Hebrew maenad, whose scarlet, parted lips
+ached for the desert dreamer's death; "Lucrezia Borgia," slow-smiling,
+crowned with golden hair; and a rough charcoal study for Queen
+Eleanor.
+
+"I seem to see you as Henry's Rosamund," he said. "I wonder--the
+haunting shadow of coming sorrow in blue eyes. You have suffered."
+
+"I am hungry," she answered.
+
+He looked at his watch. "Forgive me! It is past noon. Run away, child,
+and come back at two."
+
+The day seemed very long in spite of Camille's easy kindness, and the
+girl shrank from the subsequent sitting at Varini's.
+
+"Why do you pose for those wretched boys?" grumbled the Prix de Rome
+man. "After this week you must come to me only. I must paint a
+Rosamund."
+
+At sunset she hurried down the hill to the Corso, and came by way of
+the corridor and garden to the pavilion. The porter took her into a
+dingy little lumber-filled passage and left her there. A soiled pink
+satin frock was laid ready for her on a broken chair. As she put it on
+she heard a babel of voices in the class-room beyond, and she felt
+something like stage-fright as she fumbled at the hooks and eyes; but
+a clock struck the hour presently, and she went in then and climbed on
+to the throne. At first she saw nothing, but after a while she was
+aware of a group of men who stood near the door regarding her.
+
+"_Carina._"
+
+"Yes, a fine colour, but too thin."
+
+When the professor came in he made her sit in a carved chair, and gave
+her a fan to hold. The men moved about, choosing their places, and
+were silent until he left them with a gruff "_Felice notte_." Olive
+noticed the lad who had been called in to Varini's studio to see her;
+the boy who sat next him had a round, impudent face, and when
+presently she yawned he smiled at her.
+
+"I will ask questions to keep you awake, but you must answer truly.
+Have you taken a fancy to anyone here?"
+
+"I don't dislike you or Mario."
+
+They rose simultaneously and bowed. "We are honoured. But why? Bembi
+here is a fine figure of a man."
+
+"Enough!" growled Bembi. "You talk too much."
+
+During the rest Olive went to look at the boys' work; it was
+brilliantly impressionistic. The younger had evidently founded himself
+on Mario, and Mario was, perhaps, a genius.
+
+They came and sat down, one on either side of her.
+
+"Why are you pretending to be a model?" whispered Mario. "We can see
+you are not. Are you hiding from someone?"
+
+She shook her head. "I am earning my bread," she answered. "Be kind to
+me."
+
+"We will." He patted her bare shoulder with the air of a grandfather,
+but his brown eyes sparkled.
+
+"Why are some of the men so old, and why is some of the work so--"
+
+"Bad." Mario squinted at Bembi's black, smudged drawing. "I will tell
+you. That bald man in the corner is seventy-two; painting is his
+amusement, and he loves models. He wants to marry Fortunata, but she
+won't have him because he is toothless. Once, twenty-five years ago,
+he sold a watercolour for ten lire and he has never forgotten it."
+
+"Really because he is toothless?"
+
+"Oh, he is mad too, and she is afraid of him. Cesare and I are the
+only ones here who will make you look human. It is a pity, as you are
+really _carina_."
+
+He patted her shoulder again and pinched her ear, and Cesare passed
+his arm about her waist. She struggled to free herself.
+
+"Let her go!" cried the other men, and, flushed and dishevelled, she
+took refuge on the throne. The pose was resumed, and the room settled
+down to work again.
+
+She kept very still, but after a while the tears that filled her eyes
+overflowed, ran down her cheeks, and dripped upon the hand that held
+the fan.
+
+"I am sorry," cried Mario.
+
+"And I."
+
+"Forgive me."
+
+"And me."
+
+"I was a _mascalzone_!"
+
+"And I."
+
+"Forgive them for our sakes," growled Bembi, "or they will cackle all
+night."
+
+Olive laughed a little in spite of herself, but she was very tired and
+they had hurt her. The marks of Cesare's fingers showed red still on
+her wrist, and the lace of the short sleeve was torn.
+
+Mario clattered out of the room presently, and came back with a glass
+of water for her. "I am really sorry," he whispered as he gave it. "Do
+stop crying."
+
+After all they had not meant any harm. She was a little comforted, and
+the expressed contrition helped her.
+
+"I shall be better soon," she said gently.
+
+When she got home to the apartment in Via Arco della Ciambella there
+were lies to be told about the lessons, the pupils, the hours. The
+fine edge of her exaltation was already blunted, and she sighed at the
+thought of her morning dreams; sighed and was glad; the first steps
+had not cost much after all, and she had earned five lire and fifteen
+soldi.
+
+The lamp was lit in the little sitting-room, and Ser Giulia was
+there, cutting out a skirt on the table very carefully, in a tense
+silence that was broken only by the click of the scissors and the
+rustle of silk.
+
+"I have lost confidence in myself," she said as she fastened the
+shining lengths together with pins. "This _is_ the right side of the
+material, isn't it, my dear? I can't see."
+
+"Yes, this is right. Let me stitch the seams for you. Where is Signora
+Aurelia?"
+
+"She has gone to bed. Her head ached. She--she does not complain, but
+I think she needs more sun and air than she can get here."
+
+Olive looked at her quickly. "You ought to go away and rest, both of
+you."
+
+"Our brother in Como would be glad to have us with him, but it is
+impossible at present. I paid our rent a few days ago--three months in
+advance."
+
+"I will go to the house-agent in the Piazza di Spagna to-morrow. It
+should not be difficult to get a tenant, and at the end of the time
+the furniture could be warehoused, or you could sell it."
+
+Ser Giulia hesitated. "What would you do then, _figliuola mia_?"
+
+"Oh, I can take care of myself," the girl said easily.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+
+After the first week Olive went only to Camille's _atelier_. He was
+working hard at his "_etude blanche_," but no one had been allowed to
+see it, except, of course, M'sieur le Directeur.
+
+"I almost wish I had asked you to come always heavily veiled. The
+other men are all mad about you, and Gontrand tells me he wants you to
+give him sittings for the head of an oread, but he cannot have you.
+You are mine."
+
+"Is he a lean, black-bearded man?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"He spoke to me the other day as I was coming through the garden, and
+asked me if you were really painting a '_jeune fille_' picture. I said
+you were painting a picture, and he would probably see it when you had
+your show in April."
+
+Camille laughed. "Good child! We must keep up the mystery." He flung
+down his brushes. "I cannot work any more to-day. Will you come with
+me for a drive into the Campagna?"
+
+She hesitated. "I am not sure--"
+
+"Come as my little brother." He took off his linen painting sleeves,
+and began to dabble his fingers in a pan of turpentine. "My little
+brother! Do you know that the Directeur thinks you are charming, and
+he wonders that I do not love you."
+
+"I am glad you do not," she said, colouring. "If you did--"
+
+He was lighting a cigarette. "If I did?" The little momentary flame of
+the match was reflected in his blue eyes.
+
+"I should go away and not come back again."
+
+"Well, I do not," he said heartily. "I care for you as St Francis did
+for his pet sparrow. So now put your hat on and I will go down and get
+a _vettura_ with a good horse."
+
+He was a creature of moods, and so young in many ways that he appealed
+to the girl as Astorre had done, by the queer, pathetic little flaws
+in his manhood. Some days he worked incessantly from early morning
+until the light failed at his picture, but there were times when he
+seemed unable even to look at it. He made several studies in charcoal
+for "Rosamund."
+
+"It is an inspiration," he said excitedly more than once. "The rose of
+the world that can only be reached by love--or hate--holding the
+clue."
+
+He had promised an American who had bought a picture of his the year
+before that he would do some work for him in Venice in the spring.
+"Very rash of me," he said fractiously. "The 'Jeune Fille' would have
+been quite enough for me to show, and it is dreadful to have to leave
+it unfinished now." And when Gontrand tried to persuade him to let him
+have Olive during his absence he was, as the girl phrased it, quite
+cross. "I have seen enough of that. Last year in the Salon St
+Elizabeth of Hungary, and Clytemnestra, and Malesherbe's _vivandiere_
+were one and the same woman. Besides, oreads are nearly related to
+Bacchantes, Gontrand, and I am not going to allow my little
+sewing-girl to be mixed up with people of that sort."
+
+He made Olive promise not to sit for any of the other men at the Villa
+Medici.
+
+"I shall work at Varini's in the evenings," she said. "And one of the
+men there wants me to come to his studio in the Via Margutta three
+mornings a week. He is a Baron von something."
+
+The Frenchman's face lightened. "Oh, that German! I know him. I saw a
+landscape of his once. It looked as if several tubes of paint had got
+together and burst. What else will you do?"
+
+"Rome, if you will lend me your Baedeker," she answered. "I shall begin
+with A and work my way through Beatrice Cenci and the Borgo Nuovo to
+the Corsini Gallery and the Corso. Some of the letters may be rather
+dull. I am so glad Apollo comes now."
+
+He laughed. "M for Michelin. You will be sure to admire me when my
+turn comes."
+
+Olive was living alone now in a tall old house in Ripetta. The two
+kind women who had been her friends had left Rome and gone to stay
+with their brother at Como. It was evidently the best thing they could
+do, and the girl had assured them that she was quite well able to look
+after herself, but they had been only half convinced by her reasoning.
+She was English and she had done it before. "That is nothing," Ser
+Giulia said. "You may catch a ball once, and the second time it may
+slip through your fingers. And sometimes Life is like the importunate
+widow and goes on asking until one gives what one should not." She
+helped her to find a room, and eked out the furniture from her own
+little store. "Another saucepan, and a kettle, and a blanket. And if
+lessons fail you must come to us, _figliuola mia_. My brother's house
+is large."
+
+The girl had answered her with a kiss, but though she loved them she
+was not altogether sorry to see them go. She could never tell them how
+she had earned the lire that paid the baker's bill. The truth would
+hurt them, and she would not give them a moment's pain if she could
+avoid it, but she was not good at lying. Even the very little white
+ones stuck in her throat, and she was relieved to be no longer under
+the necessity of uttering them.
+
+The room she had taken was on the sixth floor, and from the one
+narrow window she could look across the yellow swirl of Tiber towards
+Monte Mario. She had set up her household gods. The plaster bust of
+Dante, and her books, on the rickety wooden table by her bedside, and,
+such as it was, this place was home.
+
+Camille went by a night train, and Olive began to "see Rome" on the
+following morning. She took the tram to the Piazza Venezia and walked
+from thence to the church of Santa Maria Ara Coeli.
+
+The flight of steps to the west door is very long, and she climbed
+slowly, stopping once or twice to take breath and look back at the
+crowded roofs and many church domes of Rome, and at the green heights
+of the Janiculan hill beyond, with the bronze figure of Garibaldi on
+his horse, dominant, and very clear against the sky.
+
+The cripple at the door lifted the heavy leather curtain for her and
+she put a soldo into his outstretched hand as she went in. The church
+seemed very still, very quiet, after the clamour of the streets. The
+acrid scent of incense was as the breath of spent prayer. Little
+yellow flames flickered in the shrine lamps before each altar, but it
+was early yet and for the moment no mass was being said. An old,
+white-haired monk was sweeping the worn pavement. He was swathed in a
+blue linen apron, and his rusty brown frock was tucked up about his
+ankles. A lean black cat followed him, mewing, and now and then he
+stopped his work to stroke it. There was a great stack of chairs by
+the door, and a few were scattered about the aisles and occupied by
+stray worshippers, women with handkerchiefs tied over their heads in
+deference to St Paul's expressed wishes, two or three old men, and
+some peasants with their market baskets. A be-ribboned nurse carrying
+a baby had just come in to see the Sacro Bambino, and Olive followed
+them into the sacristy and saw the child laid down before the
+bedizened, red-cheeked wooden doll in the glass case. As they passed
+out again the monk who was in attendance gave Olive a coloured card
+with a prayer printed on the back. She heard him asking what was the
+matter with the little one. The woman lifted the lace veil from the
+tiny face and showed him the sightless eyes. He crossed himself.
+"_Poveretto! Dio vi benedica!_"
+
+As Olive left the sacristy a tall man came across the aisle towards
+her. It was Prince Tor di Rocca.
+
+"This is a great pleasure," he said. "But not to you, I am afraid. You
+are not glad to see me."
+
+"I am surprised. I--do you often come into churches?"
+
+He laughed. "I sometimes follow women in. I saw you coming up the
+steps just now. You are right in supposing that I am not devout. I
+want to speak to you. Shall we go out?"
+
+She looked for a way of escape but saw none.
+
+"If--very well," she said rather helplessly.
+
+The hunchback woman at the south door watched them expectantly as they
+came towards her, and she brightened as she saw the man's hand go to
+his pocket. He threw her a piece of silver as they passed out. He was
+in a good humour, his fine lips smiling, a glinting zest in his
+insolent eyes. He thought he understood women, and he had in fact made
+a one-sided study of the sex. He had seen their ways of loving, he had
+listened to the beating of their hearts; but of their endurance, their
+long patience, their daily life he knew nothing. He was like a man who
+often wears a bunch of violets in his coat until they fade, and yet
+has never seen, or cared to see them, growing sparsely, small and
+sweet, half hidden in leaves on a mossy bank by the stream.
+
+Women amused him. He was seldom much moved by them, and he pursued
+them without haste or flurry, treading delicately like Agag of old. He
+had little intrigues everywhere, in Florence, in Naples, in Rome.
+Young married women, girls walking demurely with their mothers. He
+liked to know that it was he who brought the colour to their cheeks
+and that their eyes sought him among the crowd of men standing outside
+Aragno's in the Corso or on the steps of the club in the Via
+Tornabuoni. Very often the affair would be one of the eyes only, but
+sometimes it went farther. Filippo's procedure varied. Sometimes he
+put advertisements in the personal column of the Popolo Romano, and
+sometimes he wrote notes. It was always very interesting while it
+lasted. Occasionally affairs overlapped, as when an appeal to F. to
+meet Norina once more in the Borghese appeared in print above F.'s
+request that the signorina in the pink hat would write to him at the
+Poste Restante.
+
+Olive had nearly yielded to him in Florence, and then she had run
+away, she had sought safety in flight. Evidently then his battle had
+been nearly won. But she had reassembled her forces, and he saw that
+it would be all to fight over again, and that the issue was doubtful.
+
+As they came into the little square piazza of the Capitol she turned
+to him. "What have you to say? I--I am in a hurry."
+
+"I am sorry for that, but if you are going anywhere I can walk with
+you, or we can take a _vettura_ and drive together."
+
+She looked past him at the green shining figure of Marcus Aurelius on
+his horse riding between her and the sun, and said nothing.
+
+"I shall enjoy being with you even if you are inclined to be silent.
+You are so good to look at."
+
+His brazen stare gave point to his words. Her face was no longer
+childish in its charm. It had lost the first roundness of youth, but
+had gained in expression. A soul seemed to be shining through the veil
+of flesh--white and rose-red flesh, divinely gilt with freckles--and
+fluttering in the troubled depths of her blue eyes. The nun-like
+simplicity of her grey dress pleased him: it did not detract from her;
+it left the eyes free to return to her face, to dwell upon her lips.
+
+"Something has happened," he said. "There is another man. Are you
+married?"
+
+"No."
+
+"I only came to Rome yesterday. Strange that we should meet so soon.
+It seems that there is a Destiny that shapes our ends after all."
+
+"You do not believe in free will?"
+
+He shrugged his shoulders. "I do not think about such things."
+
+"Well," she said impatiently. "Is that all you have to say? I suppose
+the Marchesa and Mamie are here too."
+
+He hesitated and seemed to lose some of his assurance. "No, we
+quarrelled. The girl is insupportable. She is engaged now to a lord of
+sorts, an Englishman, and they are still in Cairo."
+
+"So you have lost her too."
+
+"It was your fault that Edna gave me up. You owe me something for
+that. And you behaved badly to me again--afterwards."
+
+"I did not."
+
+He laughed enjoyingly. "I trusted you and you took advantage of a
+truce to run away."
+
+She moved away from him, but he followed her and kept at her side.
+
+"I never asked you to trust me. I asked you to come the next day for
+an answer. You came and you had it."
+
+"I came and I had it," he repeated. "Did the old woman give you my
+message?"
+
+"That we should meet again?"
+
+"That was not all. I said you would come to me one day sooner or
+later."
+
+They had paused at the top of the steps that lead down from the
+Capitol into the streets and are guarded by the gigantic figures of
+Castor and Pollux, great masses of discoloured marble set on pedestals
+on either side. It was twelve o'clock, and a black stream of hungry,
+desk-weary men poured out of the Capitoline offices. Many turned to
+look at the English girl as they hurried by, and one passing close to
+her muttered "bella" in her ear. She drew back as though she had been
+stung. Filippo laughed again.
+
+"I only ask to be let alone," she said. "Can't you understand that you
+remind me of things I want to forget. I am ashamed, oh, can't you
+understand!"
+
+She left him and went to stand on the outskirts of the crowd that had
+collected in front of the cage in which the wolves are kept. Evidently
+she hoped that he would go on, but he meant to disappoint her, and
+when she went down the steps he was close beside her.
+
+"Why are you so unkind to me?" he said, and as they crossed the road
+he held her arm.
+
+She wrenched herself away, went up to the _carabiniere_, who stood at
+the corner, and spoke to him. The man smiled tolerantly as he glanced
+from her to Filippo. "Signorina, I cannot help you."
+
+She passed on down the street, knowing that she was being followed,
+crossed the Corso Vittorio Emanuele and took a tram in the Piazza
+della Minerva. Tor di Rocca got in too and sat down opposite to her.
+The conductor turned to him first, and when she proffered her four
+soldi she found that he had paid for both. Her hand shook as she put
+the money back in her purse, and her colour rose. Filippo, quite at
+his ease, leisurely, openly observant of her, whistled "Lucia" softly
+to himself. Roses, roses all the way, and all for him, he thought
+amusedly. And yet she bore the ordeal well, betraying no restlessness,
+keeping her eyes unswervingly fixed on the two lions of the
+advertisement of Chinina Migone pasted on the glass over his head. At
+the Ripetta bridge she got out. He followed, saw her go into a house
+farther down the street, and paused on the threshold to take the
+number before he went up the stairs after her. She heard him coming.
+He turned the handle of the door, but she had locked it and it held
+fast. He knocked once and called to her. Evidently he was not sure of
+her being within. There was another room on the same landing, and
+after a while he tried that.
+
+"Are you in there? _Carissima_, you are wasting time. To-day or
+to-morrow, sooner or later. Why not to-day, and soon?"
+
+A silence ensued. The girl had taken off her hat and thrown it down
+upon the table. She stood very still in the middle of the room
+listening, waiting for him to go away again. Her breath came quickly,
+and little pearls of sweat broke out upon her forehead. His
+persistence frightened her.
+
+He waited for an answer, and receiving none, added, "Well, I will come
+again," and so went away.
+
+She stayed in until it was time to go to Varini's. It was not far, but
+she was flushed and panting with the haste that she had made as she
+put on the faded blue silk dress that had been laid out ready for her
+on the one broken chair in the dressing-room. Rosina came in to her
+presently from the professor's studio. She wore a man's tweed coat and
+a striped blanket wrapped about her, and she was smoking a cigarette.
+
+"So you have come back to work here. Your signorino at the Villa
+Medici is away?"
+
+"Only for a few days. He will not be gone long. The picture is not
+finished. How is Pasquina?"
+
+Rosina had come over to her and was fastening the hooks of her bodice.
+"She is very well. How pretty you are." She rearranged the laces at
+the girl's breast and caught up a torn piece of the silk with a pin.
+"That is better. Have you been running? You seem hot."
+
+"Oh, Rosina, I have been frightened. A man followed me. I shall be
+afraid to go home to-night."
+
+The yellow-haired Trasteverina looked at her shrewdly. "He knows where
+you live? Have you only seen him once?"
+
+"He--he came and tried my door. I am afraid of him."
+
+Rosina nodded. "_Si capisce!_ I will take care of you. I have met so
+many _mascalzoni_ in twenty years that I have grown used to them. I
+will come home with you, and if any man so much as looks at us I will
+scratch his eyes out."
+
+Through the thin partition wall they heard the professor calling for
+his model. "I must go," she said hurriedly, but as she passed out
+Olive caught at a fold of the enveloping blanket.
+
+"Come here, I want you." She flung her arms about the other girl's
+neck and kissed her. "You are good! You are good!"
+
+She went into the class room and climbed the throne as the men came
+clattering in to take their places. The professor posed her.
+
+"So you have come back to us. Do not let them spoil you at the Villa
+Medici--your head a little higher--so."
+
+The first drawing in of the figure is not a thing to be taken lightly,
+and the silence was seldom broken at Varini's on Monday evenings. The
+two boys, however, found it hard to repress the natural loquacity of
+their extreme youth.
+
+"_Al lavoro_, Mario! What are you whispering about? Cesare, _zitto_!"
+Bembi stared at them. "Their chins are disappearing," he said. "See
+their collars. Every day an inch higher. _Dio mio!_ Is that the way to
+please women? I wear a flannel shirt and my neck is as bare as a
+plucked chicken, and yet I--" he stopped short.
+
+Mario laughed. "Women are strange," he admitted.
+
+"Mad!" cried Cesare, and then as Bembi still smirked ineffably he
+appealed to Olive. "Do you admire fowls wrapped in flannel or _in
+arrosto_?"
+
+When she came out she found Rosina waiting for her in the courtyard,
+a grey shadow with smooth fair hair shining in the moonlight. "The
+professor let me go at eight so I dressed and came out here," she
+explained. "The dressing-room is full of dust and spider's webs. I
+told the porter the other day that he ought to sweep it, but he only
+laughed at me and said Domeniddio made spiders long before he took a
+rib out of Adam's side to whip a naughty world."
+
+"Who is the man?" she asked presently as they walked along together.
+"Do I know him?"
+
+"I do not think so. He is not an artist."
+
+Rosina laid a hand upon her arm. "Is that he?" she said.
+
+They had passed through one of the narrow streets that lead from the
+Corso towards the river and were come into the Ripetta.
+
+A tall man was walking slowly along on the other side of the road. He
+did not seem to have noticed the two girls, and yet as he stopped to
+light a cigarette he was looking towards them. A tram came clanging
+up, the overhead wires emitting strange noises peculiar to themselves,
+the gong ringing sharply. Olive glanced up at the red painted triangle
+fixed to the lamp-post at the corner. "It will stop here. Quick! while
+it is between us. Perhaps he has not seen--"
+
+They ran to her door and up the stairs together. "It has only just
+gone on," cried Rosina. "Have you got your key?"
+
+She stayed on the landing while Olive went into the room and lit her
+candle. There was no sound in the house at all, no step upon the
+stair. As she peered down over the banisters into the darkness below
+she listened intently. The rustling of her skirt sounded loud in the
+stillness, but there was nothing else.
+
+"He did not see us," she said. "I shall go now. Lock your door.
+_Felice notte, piccina._"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+
+Camille, loitering on the terrace of the old garden of the Villa
+Medici, was quick to hear the creaking of the iron gate upon its
+hinges. His pale face brightened as he threw away his cigarette and he
+went down the path between the ilex trees to meet his model.
+
+"You have come. Oh, I seem to have been years away."
+
+They went up the hill together. It was early yet, and the city was
+veiled in fine mist through which the river gleamed here and there
+with a sharpness of steel. The dome of St Peter's was still dark
+against the greenish pallor of the morning sky.
+
+"I am glad to be in Rome again. Venice is beautiful, but it does not
+inspire me. It has no associations for me. What do I care for the
+Doges, or for Titian's fat, golden-haired women with their sore
+eyes--Caterina Cornaro and the rest. Rome is a crystal in which I seem
+to see faces of dear women, women who lived and loved and saw the sun
+set behind that rampart of low hills--Virginia, the Greek slave Acte,
+Agnes, Cecilia, who sang as she lay dying in her house over there in
+the Trasteverine quarter. Ah, I shall go away and have the nostalgia
+of Rome to the end of my life." He paused to light another cigarette.
+"Come and look at the picture. I have not dared to see it again myself
+since I came back last night."
+
+The door of his _atelier_ was open; he clattered up the steep wooden
+stairs and she followed him. The canvas was set up on an easel facing
+the great north light. Camille went up to it and then backed away.
+
+"Well?"
+
+He was smiling. "It is good," he said. "I shall work on it to-day and
+to-morrow. Get ready now while I prepare my palette."
+
+He looked at her critically as she took her place. The change in her
+was indefinable, but he was aware of it. She seemed to be listening.
+
+"Do you feel a draught from the door?" he asked presently.
+
+"No, but I should like it shut."
+
+"Nerves. You need a tonic and probably a change of air and scene.
+There is nothing the matter?"
+
+She shook her head. Camille was kind, but he could not help her. He
+could not make the earth open and swallow Tor di Rocca, and sometimes
+she felt that nothing less than that would satisfy her, and that such
+a summary ending would contribute greatly to her peace of mind.
+
+She had not seen the Prince for two days and she was beginning to
+hope that he had gone away, but she was not yet able to feel free of
+him. Rosina had come home with her every night from Varini's. Once he
+had followed them, and twice he had come up the stairs and knocked at
+the door. There had been hours when she had been safe from him, but
+she had not known them, and the strain, the constant pricking fear of
+him, was telling upon her. Every day youth and strength and hope
+seemed to be slipping away and leaving her less able to do and to
+endure. She dared not look forward, as Camille did, to the end of
+life. He would die in his bed, full of years and honour, a great
+artist, a master, the president of many societies, but she--
+
+Sometimes, as she stood facing the semi-circle of men at Varini's, and
+listened to the busy scratching of charcoal on paper, to Bembi's heavy
+breathing, and to the ticking of the clock, she wondered if she had
+done wrong in taking this way of bread earning. Certainly there could
+be no turning back. The step, once taken, was irrevocable. If artists
+employed her she would go on, but she could get no other work if this
+failed. If this failed there must be another struggle between flesh
+and spirit, and this time it would be decisive--one or other must
+prevail. Though she dreaded it she knew it was inevitable.
+
+Meanwhile Camille stood in need of her ministrations. He had arranged
+to show his work on the fifteenth of April, and now he seemed to
+regard that date as thrice accursed. Often when she came in the
+morning she would find him prowling restlessly to and fro, or sitting
+with his head in his hands staring gloomily at the parquet flooring
+and sighing like a furnace.
+
+"I hate having to invite people who do not know anything, who cannot
+tell an etching from an oil," he said irritably. "I cannot suffer
+their ridiculous comments gladly. I would rather have six teeth pulled
+out than hear my Aholibah called pretty. _Pretty!_"
+
+"They cannot say anything wrong about the picture of me," she said.
+"It is splendid. M'sieur le Directeur says so, and I am sure it is.
+And your Venice sketches look so well on the screen."
+
+"You must be there," he moaned. "If you are not there I shall burst
+into tears and run away." Then he laughed. "I am always like this. You
+should see me in Paris on the eve of the opening of the Salon. A
+pitiable wreck! I had no angel to console me there."
+
+He kissed her hands with unusual fervour.
+
+The girl had not really meant to come at first, but she yielded to his
+persuasions. "I will look after the food and drink then," she said,
+and she spent herself on the decoration of the tea-table. They went to
+Aragno's together in the morning to get cakes and bonbons.
+
+"What flowers?"
+
+She chose mimosa, and he bought a great mass of the fragrant golden
+boughs, and a bunch of violets for her.
+
+Camille knew a good many people in Rome, and all those he had asked
+came. The Prix de Rome men were the first arrivals. They came in a
+body, and on the stroke of the hour named on the invitation cards.
+Camille watched their faces eagerly as they crowded in and came to a
+stand before his picture; they knew, and if they approved he cared
+little for the verdict of all Rome.
+
+Gontrand was the first to break rather a long silence.
+
+"Delicious!" he cried. "It is a triumph."
+
+Camille flushed with pleasure as the others echoed him.
+
+"The scheme of whites," "The fine quality," "So pure."
+
+One after the other they went across the room to talk to the model,
+who stood by the tea-table waiting to serve them.
+
+"You are wonderful, mademoiselle. If only you would sit for me I might
+hope to achieve something too."
+
+"When M'sieur Michelin has done with me," she said. "You like the
+picture?"
+
+"It is adorable--as you are."
+
+Other people were coming now. Camille stayed by the door to receive
+them while his friend Gontrand showed the drawings in the portfolio,
+explained the Campagna sketches, and handed plates of cake and sweets.
+When Olive made fresh tea he brought her more sliced lemons from the
+lumber room, where Rosina was washing the cups.
+
+"I am useful but not disinterested. Persuade Camille to let you sit
+for me."
+
+"But you will not be here in the summer," she said wistfully.
+
+"Coffee, madame? These cakes are not very sweet. Yes, I was M'sieur
+Michelin's model. Yes, it is a beautiful picture."
+
+The crowd thinned towards six o'clock, and there was no one now at the
+far end of the room but a man who seemed to be looking at the sketches
+on the screen. Olive thought she might take a cup of tea herself, and
+she was pouring it out when he turned and came towards her. It was Tor
+di Rocca.
+
+"Ah," he said smilingly, "the girl in Michelin's picture reminded me
+of you, but I did not realise that you were indeed the 'Jeune Fille.'
+I have been away from Rome these last few days. Have you missed me?"
+
+His hot brown eyes lingered over her.
+
+"Don't."
+
+"I should like a cup of coffee."
+
+Her hand shook so as she gave it to him that much was spilled on the
+floor. She had pitied him once; he remembered that as he saw how she
+shrank from him. "Michelin has been more fortunate than I have," he
+said deliberately.
+
+"I beg your pardon."
+
+"You seem to be at home here."
+
+"I suppose you must follow the bent of your mind."
+
+"I suppose I must," he agreed as he stood aside to let her pass. She
+had defied him that night in Florence. "Never!" she had said. And now
+he saw that she smiled at Camille as she went by him into the further
+room, and the old bad blood stirred in him and he ached with a fierce
+jealousy.
+
+She had denied him. "Never!" she had said.
+
+As he joined the group of men by the door Gontrand turned to him. "Ah,
+Prince, have you heard that Michelin has already sold his picture?"
+
+"I am not surprised," the Italian answered suavely. "If I was
+rich--but I am not. Who is the happy man?"
+
+"That stout grey-haired American who left half an hour since. Did you
+notice him? He is Vandervelde, the great millionaire art collector."
+
+"May one ask the price?"
+
+"Eight thousand francs," answered Camille. He looked tired, but his
+blue eyes were very bright. "I am glad, and yet I shall be sorry to
+part with it."
+
+"You will still have the charming original," the Prince said not quite
+pleasantly.
+
+There was a sudden silence. The men all waited for Camille's answer.
+Beyond, in the next room, they heard the two girls splashing the
+water, clattering the cups and plates.
+
+The young Frenchman paused in the act of striking a match. He looked
+surprised. "But this is the original. I have made no copy."
+
+"I meant--" The Prince stopped short. After all, he thought, he goes
+well who goes slowly.
+
+Camille was waiting. "You meant?"
+
+Tor di Rocca had had time to think. "Nothing," he said sweetly.
+
+Silence was again ensuing but Gontrand flung himself into the breach.
+
+"The Duchess said she wanted her daughter's portrait painted."
+
+"She said the same to me."
+
+"Are you going to do it?"
+
+Camille suppressed a yawn. "I don't know. _Qui vivra verra._"
+
+He was glad when they were all gone, Gontrand and Tor di Rocca and the
+rest, and he could stretch himself and sigh, and sing at the top of
+his voice:
+
+      "'Nicholas, je vais me pendre
+    Qu'est-ce que tu vas dire de cela?
+    Si vous vous pendez ou v'vous pendez pas
+      Ca m'est ben egal, Mam'zelle.
+      Si vous vous pendez ou v'vous pendez pas
+    Oh, laissez moi planter mes chous!'"
+
+When Olive came out of the inner room presently he told her that he
+had sold the "Jeune Fille." "The Duchess has nearly commissioned me to
+paint her Melanie. It went off well, don't you think so? Come at nine
+to-morrow."
+
+"Yes, if you want me. Good-night, M'sieur Camille," she said. "Are you
+coming, Rosina?"
+
+"Why do you wait for her?" he asked curiously. "I should not have
+thought you had much in common."
+
+"She is my friend. She knows I do not care to be alone."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+
+When Olive came to the _atelier_ on the following morning Camille was
+not there, but the door was open and he had left a note on the table
+for her.
+
+    "I have had a letter from the Duchess. She is leaving
+    Rome to-day but she wants to see me before she goes. It
+    must be about her daughter's portrait. I must go to her
+    hotel, but I shall drive both ways and be back in half
+    an hour. Wait for me.--C. M."
+
+Olive took off her hat and coat as usual behind the screen. She was
+choosing a book from the tattered row of old favourites on the shelf
+when she heard a step outside. She listened, thinking that it was
+Camille, and fearing that the commission had not been given him. It
+was not like him to be so silent.
+
+"I thought you would be singing--" she stopped short.
+
+Filippo came on into the room.
+
+"M'sieur Michelin is out," she said.
+
+"So the porter told me. You do not think I want to see him. Will you
+come with me to Albano to-day?"
+
+She shook her head.
+
+"To-morrow, then. Why not?"
+
+"I have my work."
+
+"Your work! I see you believe you can do without me now. How long do
+you think you will be able to earn money in this way? All these men
+will be leaving Rome soon. The schools will be closed until next
+October. You will have to choose between the devil and the deep sea--"
+
+"What is the good of talking about it?" she said wearily. "I know I
+have nothing to look forward to. I know that. Please go away."
+
+"Do you know that you have cost me more than any other woman I have
+ever met? You injured me; will you make no amends?"
+
+She laughed. "So you are the victim."
+
+"Yes," he said passionately, "I told you before that I suffered, and
+you believed me then. Is it my fault that I am made like this? Since
+that night in Florence when I held you in my arms I have had no
+peace."
+
+"You behaved very badly. I can't think why I let myself be sorry for
+you."
+
+"Badly! Some men would, but I loved you even then."
+
+She looked wistfully towards the door. "I wish you would go. There are
+so many other women."
+
+"I love you, I want you," he answered, and he caught her in his arms
+and held her in spite of her struggles. "I have you!" He forced her
+head down upon his breast and kissed her mouth. She thought the
+hateful pressure of his lips, the hateful fire of his eyes would kill
+her, and when, at last, she wrenched herself away she screamed with
+the despairing violence of some trapped, wild thing.
+
+"Camille! Camille!"
+
+It seemed to her that if he did not hear her this must be the end of
+all, and she suffered an agony of terror. She thanked God as the door
+below was flung to and he came running up the stairs.
+
+The Prince let her go and half turned to meet him, but Camille was not
+inclined to parley. He struck, and struck hard. Filippo slipped on the
+polished floor, tried to recover himself, and fell heavily at the
+girl's feet.
+
+He got up at once, and the two men stood glaring at each other. Olive
+looked from one to the other. "It was nothing. I am sorry," she said
+breathlessly. "He was trying to--I was frightened. It was nothing,
+really, but--but I am glad you came."
+
+"So am I," the Frenchman said grimly. His blue eyes were grown grey as
+steel. "I am waiting, Prince."
+
+A little blood had sprung from Filippo's cut lip and run down his
+chin. He wiped it with his handkerchief and looked thoughtfully at
+the stain on the white linen before he spoke.
+
+"Who is your friend?"
+
+"Rene Gontrand."
+
+"No, no!" cried the girl. "Filippo, it was your fault. Can't you be
+sorry and forget? Camille!"
+
+"Hush, child," he said, "you do not understand."
+
+Tor di Rocca was looking at her now with the old insolent smile in his
+red-brown eyes. "Ah, you said 'Never!' but presently you will come."
+
+So he left them.
+
+Olive expected to be "poored," but Camille, as it seemed, deliberately
+took no notice of her. She watched him picking a stick of charcoal
+from the accumulation of odd brushes, pens and pencils on the table.
+
+"What a handsome devil it is. Lean, lithe and brown. He should go
+naked as a faun; such things roamed about the primeval woods seeking
+what they might devour. I wish I had asked him to sit for me."
+
+He went to his easel and began to sketch a head on the canvas he had
+prepared for the Rosamund. "He has the short Neronic upper lip," he
+murmured.
+
+Olive lost patience. "I wonder you had the heart to risk spoiling its
+contour," she said resentfully.
+
+"With my fist, you mean?"
+
+"I--I am very sorry--" she began. He saw that she was crying, and he
+was perplexed, not quite understanding what she wanted of him.
+
+"What am I to say to you?" He came over and sat down beside her, and
+she let him hold her hand. "I know so little--not even your name. I
+have asked no questions, but of course I saw-- Why do you not go back
+to your friends?"
+
+She dried her eyes. "I have cousins in Milan, but I have lost their
+address, and they would not be able to help me. I have burnt my boats.
+I used to give lessons, but it was not easy to find pupils, and then I
+met Rosina. I cannot go back to being a governess after being a model.
+I have done no wrong, but no one would have me if they knew. You see
+one has to go on--"
+
+"Have you known Tor di Rocca long? He was here last winter. He has a
+villa somewhere outside Rome. I think it belonged to his mother. She
+was an Orsini."
+
+"You are not going to fight him?"
+
+Outside, in the ilex wood, birds were calling to one another. The sun
+gilded the green of the gnarled old trees; it had rained in the night,
+and the garden was sweet with the scent of moist earth. The young man
+sighed. He had meant to take his "little brother" into the Campagna
+this April day to see the spring pageant of the skies, to hear the
+singing of larks high up at heaven's gate, the tinkling of sheep
+bells, the gurgling of water springs half hidden in the green lush
+grass that grows in the shadow of the ruined Claudian aqueducts.
+
+"Camille, answer me."
+
+He got up and went back to his easel. "You must run away now," he
+said. "I can't work this morning. I think I shall go to Naples for a
+few days, but I will let you know when I return. We must get on with
+the 'Rosamund.'"
+
+She went obediently to put on her hat, but the face she saw reflected
+in the little hanging mirror was pale and troubled. He came with her
+to the door, and when she gave him her hand he bent to kiss it. Her
+eyes filled again with tears. He will be killed, she thought, and for
+me.
+
+"Don't fight! For my sake, don't. I shall begin to think that I am a
+creature of ill-omen. They say some women are like that; they have the
+_mal occhio_; they give sorrow--"
+
+"That is absurd," he said roughly, and then, in a changed voice,
+"Good-bye, child."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+
+Olive walked home to Ripetta. She felt tired and shaken, and unhappily
+conscious of some effort that must be made presently.
+
+"He will be killed--and for me." "For me." "For me." She heard that
+echo of her thought through all the clamour of the streets, the shrill
+cries, the clatter of hoofs, the rattling of wheels over the cobble
+stones. She heard it as she climbed the stairs to her room. When she
+had taken off her hat and coat she poured some eau-de-cologne with
+water into a cup and drank it--not this time to Italy or the joy of
+life. She lay down on her bed and stayed there for a while, not
+resting, but thinking or trying to think.
+
+Was she really a sort of number thirteen, a grain of spilt salt,
+ill-omened, disastrous? Camille would not think so; but it seemed to
+her that she had never been able to make anyone happy, and that there
+must be some taint in her therefore, some flaw in her nature.
+
+Now, here, at last, was a thing well worth doing. She must risk her
+soul, lose it, perhaps, or rather, exchange it for a man's life. She
+had hoarded it hitherto, had been miserly, selfish, seeking to save
+the poor thing as though it were a pearl of price. Now she saw
+herself as the veriest rag of flesh parading virtue, useless,
+comfortless, helpless, clinging to her code, and justifying all the
+trouble she gave to others by a reference to the impalpable, elusive
+and possible non-existent immortal and inner self she had held so
+dear. She was ashamed. Ah, now at last she would give ungrudgingly.
+Her feet should not falter, nor her eyes be dimmed by any shadow of
+fear or of regret, though she went by perilous ways to an almost
+certain end.
+
+Soon after noon she got up and prepared to face the world again, and
+towards three o'clock she returned to the Villa Medici. She had to
+ring the porter's bell as the garden gate was shut, and the old man
+came grumblingly as usual.
+
+"Monsieur Michelin will see no one. Did he not tell you so this
+morning?"
+
+"But I have come for Monsieur Gontrand," she said.
+
+She hoped now above all things to find the black Gascon alone in his
+_atelier_ near the Belvedere. The first move depended upon him, and
+there was no time to spare. She determined to await his return in the
+wood if he were out, but there was no need. He opened his door at once
+in answer to her knocking.
+
+"I have come--may I speak to you for a moment?" she began rather
+confusedly. He looked tired and worried, and was so evidently alarmed
+at the sight of her, and afraid of what she was going to say next,
+that she could hardly help smiling. "I want to ask you two questions.
+I hope you will answer them."
+
+"I should be glad to please you, mademoiselle, but--"
+
+She hurried on. "First, when are they going to fight? Oh, tell me,
+tell me! I know you were to be with him. I know you are his friend. Be
+mine too! What harm can it do? I swear I will keep it secret."
+
+"Ah, well, if you promise that," he said. "It is to be to-morrow
+afternoon."
+
+"Where?"
+
+He shook his head. "I really cannot tell you that."
+
+"Well, the hour is fixed. It will not be changed?"
+
+"No, the Prince preferred the early morning, but Michelin has an
+appointment he must keep with Vandervelde at noon."
+
+"Nothing will persuade him to alter it then?" she insisted.
+
+"Nothing."
+
+"That is well," she said sighing. "Good-bye, M'sieur Gontrand.
+You--you will do your best for Camille."
+
+"You may rely on me," he answered.
+
+She went down the steps of Trinita del Monte, and across the Piazza di
+Spagna to the English book-shop at the corner, where she bought a
+_Roman Herald_. Three minutes study of the visitors' list sufficed to
+inform her that the Prince was staying at the Hotel de Russie close
+by. The afternoon was waning, and already the narrow streets of the
+lower town were in shadow; soon the shops would be lit up and gay with
+the gleam of marbles, the glimmer of Roman pearls and silks, and the
+green, grotesque bronzes that strangers buy.
+
+Olive walked down the Via Babuino past the ugly English church,
+crossed the road, and entered the hall of the hotel in the wake of a
+party of Americans. They went on towards the lift and left her
+uncertain which way to turn, so she appealed to the gold-laced,
+gigantic, and rather awful porter.
+
+"Prince Tor di Rocca?"
+
+He softened at her mention of the illustrious name.
+
+"If you will go into the lounge there I will send to see if the Prince
+is in. What name shall I say?"
+
+"Miss Agar. I have no card with me."
+
+She chose a window-seat near a writing-table at the far end of the
+room, and there Filippo found her when he came in five minutes later.
+He was prepared for anything but the smile in the blue eyes lifted to
+his, and he paled as he took the hand she gave and raised it to his
+lips.
+
+"Ah," he said fervently, "if you were always kind."
+
+"You would be good?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"For a week, or a month? But you need not answer me. Filippo, I should
+like some tea."
+
+"Of course," he said eagerly. "Forgive me," and he hurried away to
+order it.
+
+When he returned his dark face was radiant. "Do you know that is the
+second time you have called me by my name? You said Filippo this
+morning. Ah, I heard you, and I have thought of it since."
+
+The girl hardened her heart. She realised--she had always realised
+that this man was dangerous. A fire consumed him. It was a fire that
+blazed up to destroy, no pleasant light and warmth upon the hearth of
+a good life, but women were apt to flutter, moth-like, into the flame
+of it nevertheless.
+
+He sat down beside her and took her hand in his.
+
+"I know I was violent this morning; I could not help myself. I am a
+Tor di Rocca. It would be so easy for you to make me happy--"
+
+She listened quietly.
+
+A waiter brought the tea and set it on a little table between them.
+
+"You had coffee yesterday," she said. "It seems years ago."
+
+"I have forgotten yesterday, _Incipit vita nuova_! Do you remember I
+came to you dressed in Dante's red _lucco_?"
+
+"Yes, but you are not a bit like him."
+
+She came to the point presently. "Filippo, you say you want me?"
+
+"More than anything in this world."
+
+Her eyes met his and held them. "Well, if you will get out of fighting
+M'sieur Michelin I will come to you--meet you--anywhere and at any
+hour after noon to-morrow."
+
+"Ah, you make conditions."
+
+"Of course."
+
+"How can I get out of fighting him? The man struck me, insulted me."
+
+"Yes," she said, "and you know why!"
+
+"I have asked your pardon for that," he said with an effort that
+brought the colour into his face.
+
+"Yes, but that is not enough. I don't choose that this unpleasantness
+should go any further. Write a letter to him now--we will concoct it
+together--and--and--I will be nice to you."
+
+She smiled at him, and there was no shadow of fear or of regret in the
+blue eyes that looked towards the almost certain end.
+
+"Well, I must be let down easily," he said unwillingly. "I am not
+going to lick his boots."
+
+They sat down at the writing-table together, and she began to dictate.
+"Just scribble this, and if it does you can make a fair copy
+afterwards.
+
+"'DEAR MONSIEUR MICHELIN,--On reflection I understand that your
+conduct this morning was justifiable from your point of view, and I
+withdraw--'"
+
+Filippo laid down the pen. "I shall not say that."
+
+"Begin again then," she said patiently.
+
+"'I have been asked to write to you by a third person whom I wish to
+please. She tells me that this morning's unpleasantness resulted from
+a misunderstanding. She says she has deceived you, and she hopes that
+you will forgive her. I suppose from what she has said that your hasty
+action was excusable, as you thought her other than she is, and I
+think that you may now regret it and agree with me that this need go
+no farther--'"
+
+"This is better for me," he said.
+
+"Yes." She took the pen from him and wrote under his signature: "You
+will be sorry to know that your child is a liar. Try to forget her
+existence."
+
+"You can send it now by someone who must wait for an answer," she
+explained. "I shall stay here until it comes."
+
+"Very well," he said sulkily, and he went out into the hall to confer
+with the porter. "An important letter, _Eccellenza_? A _vetturino_
+will take it for you--"
+
+Olive heard the opening and shutting of doors, the shrill whistle
+answered by harsh, raucous cries, the rattling of wheels. Filippo came
+back to her.
+
+"I have done my part." Then, looking at her closely, he saw that she
+was very pale. "Is all you have implied and I have written true?"
+
+"No."
+
+"You must love him very much."
+
+"I? Not at all, as you understand love."
+
+The ensuing half-hour seemed long to the girl; Filippo talked
+desultorily, but there were intervals of silence. She was too tired to
+attempt to answer him, and, besides, his evident restlessness, his
+inattention, afforded her some acrid amusement. He was like a boy,
+eager in pursuit of the bird in the bush, heedless of the poor thing
+fluttering, dying in his hand. It was now near the dinner-hour, and
+people were coming into the lounge to await the sounding of the gong;
+from where Olive sat she could see all the entrances and exits--as in
+a glass darkly--in the clouded surface of a mirror that hung on the
+wall and reflected the white gleam of shirt fronts, the shimmer of
+silks, and she was quick to note that Filippo was interested in what
+she saw as a pink blur.
+
+His love was as fully winged for flight as any Beast of the book of
+Revelations; it was swift as a sword to pierce and be withdrawn. He
+could not be altogether loyal for a day. Olive's heart was filled
+with pity for the women who had cared.
+
+When, at last, the answer to the letter came, the Prince gave it to
+her to read. It was very short, a mere scrawl of scarlet ink on the
+brown, rough-edged paper that was one of Camille's affectations.
+
+    "My zeal was evidently misplaced and I regret its
+    excess."
+
+Olive was speechless; her eyes were dimmed, her throat ached with
+tears. How easily he believed the worst--this man who had been her
+friend. She rose to go, but Filippo laid a detaining hand upon her
+arm.
+
+"To-morrow." He had already told her where and when to meet him, and
+had given her two keys.
+
+"Are you sure you want me?" she said hurriedly. "There are so many
+women in your life. You remind me of the South American Republic that
+made--and shot--seventeen presidents in six months."
+
+He laughed. "Do I? You remind me of an eel, or a little grey mouse
+trying to get out of a trap. There is no way out, my dear, unless, of
+course, you want me to kill your Frenchman. I am a good shot."
+
+"I will come."
+
+She looked for pink as she went out of the room, and saw a very
+pretty woman in rose-coloured tulle sitting alone and near the door.
+
+She had given ungrudgingly, unfaltering, and there was no shadow of
+regret in her eyes; it was nothing to her that he should care for this
+other little body, for bare white shoulders and a fluff of yellow
+hair. He had never been more to her than a means to an end, and he was
+to be that now.
+
+She took a tram from the Piazza del Popolo to the Rotonda. There was a
+large ironmonger's shop at the corner; she remembered having noticed
+it before. She went in and asked to look at some of the pistols they
+had in the window. Several were brought out for her to see, and she
+chose a small one. The young man who served her showed her how to load
+it and pull the trigger. He wrapped it in brown paper and made a loop
+in the string for her to carry it by. She thanked him.
+
+The bells of all the churches were ringing the Ave Maria when she left
+the Hotel de Russie an hour ago, and it was dark when she reached her
+own room. The stars were bright, shining through a rift of clouds that
+hid the crescent moon. Olive laid the awkwardly-shaped parcel she
+carried down upon the table while she lit her candle. Then she got her
+scissors and cut the string. This was the key of a door through which
+she must pass. Death was the way out.
+
+The little flame of the candle gleamed on the polished steel. It was
+almost a pretty thing, so smooth and shining. It was well worth the
+money she had paid for it; it was going to be useful, indispensable
+to-morrow.
+
+Suddenly, in spite of herself, she began to think of her grave. It
+would be dug soon. She would be brought to it in a black covered cart.
+No prayers would be said, and there would be no sound at all but that
+of the earth falling upon the coffin.
+
+She sprang up, her face chalk white, her eyes wide and dark with
+terror. She was afraid, horribly afraid of this lonely and violent
+end. Jean would never know that she died rather than let another
+man--Jean would never know--Jean--
+
+"I can't! I can't!" she said aloud piteously.
+
+She was trembling so that she had to cling to the banisters as she
+went down the stairs to save herself from falling. There was a
+post-office at the corner. She went in and explained that she wanted
+to send a telegram. The young woman behind the counter glanced at the
+clock.
+
+"Where to? You have half an hour."
+
+"To Florence." She wrote it and gave it in.
+
+    "To JEAN AVENEL, Villa Fiorelli, Settignano, Florence.
+
+    "If you would help me come if you can to the Villino
+    Bella Vista at Albano to-morrow soon after noon; watch
+    for me and follow me in. I know it may not be possible,
+    but the danger is real to me and I want you so much. In
+    any case remember that my heart was yours only.--OLIVE."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+
+Jean sat leaning forward that he might see the road. The night was
+dark, starless, and very wet, and he and the chauffeur were all
+streaming with rain and splashed with liquid mud that spattered up
+from the car wheels. Now and again they rattled over the rough cobble
+stones of a village street, but the way for the most part lay through
+deep woods and by mountain gorges. The roar of Arno in flood, swollen
+with melted snows, and hurrying on its way to the sea, was with them
+for a while, but other sounds there were none save the rustling of
+leaves in the coverts, the moaning of wind in the tree-tops, the
+drip-drip of the rain, and the steady throbbing of the car.
+
+When the darkness lightened to the grey glimmer of a cheerless dawn
+Jean changed places with the chauffeur; Vincenzo was a careful driver,
+and he dared not trust his own impatience any longer. His hands were
+numbed with cold, and now he took off his gloves to chafe them, but
+first he felt in his inner pocket for the flimsy sheets of paper that
+lay there safe against his heart.
+
+He had been sitting alone at the piano in the music-room, not playing,
+but softly touching the keys and dreaming in the dark, when Hilaire
+came in to him.
+
+"You need not write to her after all. She has sent for you. Hear what
+she says." He stood in the doorway to read the message by the light
+that filtered in from the hall. Jean listened carefully.
+
+"The car--I must tell Vincenzo." The lines of the strong, lean face
+seemed to have softened, and the brown eyes were very bright. His
+brother smiled as he laid a kindly hand upon his arm. "The car will be
+round soon. I have sent word, and you have plenty of time. Assure
+Olive of my brotherly regard, and tell her that my books are still
+waiting to be catalogued. If she will come here for a while she will
+be doing a kindness to a lonely man."
+
+"I wonder what she is frightened of," Jean said thoughtfully, and
+frowning a little. "She says 'was yours' too; I don't like that."
+
+"Well, you must do your best for her," Hilaire answered in his most
+matter-of-fact tone. "Be prepared."
+
+Jean agreed, and when he went to get ready he transferred a pistol
+from a drawer of the bureau to his coat pocket. "I shall bring her
+back with me if I can. Good-bye."
+
+The sun shone for a few minutes after its rising through a rift in the
+clouds, but soon went in again; the rain still poured down, and the
+distance was hidden in mist that clung to the hillsides and filled
+each ravine and cranny in the rocks. They were near Orvieto when the
+car broke down; Vincenzo was out on the road at once, but his master
+sat quite still. He could not endure the thought of any delay.
+
+"What is it? Will it take long?" He had forced himself to wait a
+minute before he asked the question, but still his lips felt stiff,
+and all the colour had gone out of them.
+
+The man reassured him. "It is nothing."
+
+Jean went to help him, and soon they were able to go on again.
+
+They came presently to the fen lands--the Campagna that so greatly
+needs the magic and glamour of the Roman sunshine, the vault of the
+blue sky above, and the sound of larks singing to adorn it. It seemed
+a desolate and dreary waste, wind-swept, and shivering under the lash
+of the rain on such a morning as this, and the car was a very small
+thing moving in that apparently illimitable plain along a road that
+might be endless. Jean saw a herd of the wild, black buffaloes
+standing in a pool at the foot of a broken arch of the Claudian
+aqueduct, and now and again he caught a glimpse of fragments of
+masonry, or a ruined tower, ancient stronghold of one or other of the
+robber barons who preyed on Rome-ward pilgrims in the age of faith and
+rapine.
+
+They reached Albano soon after eleven o'clock, and Jean left his man
+in the car while he went in to the Ristorante of the Albergo della
+Posta. He ordered a cup of coffee, and sat down at one of the little
+marble tables near the door to drink it. There was no one else in the
+place at the moment.
+
+"Can you tell me the way to the Villino Bella Vista?"
+
+The waiter looked at him curiously. "It is down in the olive woods and
+quite near the lake, and you must go to it by a lane from the Galleria
+di Sopra, the upper road to Castel Gandolfo." After a momentary
+hesitation he added, "_Scusi!_ But are you thinking of taking it,
+signore?"
+
+Jean started. It had not occurred to him that the house might be
+empty. "I don't know," he answered cautiously. "Has it been to let
+long?"
+
+"Oh, yes," the man said. "The Princess Tor di Rocca spent her last years
+there, alone, and after her death the agent in Rome found tenants. But
+lately no one has come to it, even to see." He lowered his voice. "The
+place has a bad name hereabouts. The _contadini_--rough, ignorant folk,
+signore--say she still walks in the garden at moonrise, waiting for the
+husband and son who never came; and the women who go to wash their
+linen in the lake will not come back that way at night for fear of
+seeing her dead eyes peering at them through the bars of the gate."
+
+"Ah, that is very interesting," Jean said appreciatively. He finished
+his coffee, paid for it with a piece of silver, and waited to light a
+cigarette before he went out.
+
+Vincenzo sat still in the car, a model of patient impassivity, but he
+turned a hungry eye on his master as he came down the steps.
+
+"You can go and get something to eat. I shall drive up to the Galleria
+di Sopra, and you must follow me there. You will find the car at the
+side of the road. Stay with it until I come, and if anyone asks
+questions you need not answer them."
+
+Jean drove up the steep hill towards the lake. The rain was still
+heavy, and the squalid streets of the little town were running with
+mud. He turned to the left by the Calvary at the foot of the ilex
+avenue by the Capuchin church, and stopped the car some way further
+down the road. The lane the waiter had told him of was not hard to
+find. It was a narrow path between high walls of olive orchards; it
+led straight down to the lake, and the entrance to the Villino was
+quite close to the water's edge. Nothing could be seen of it from the
+lane but the name painted on the gate-posts and one glimpse of a
+shuttered window, forlorn and viewless as a blind eye, and half hidden
+by flowering laurels. Jean looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to
+twelve, and she had written "after noon," but he could not be sure
+that she had not come already, and since he had heard the name of Tor
+di Rocca he was more than ever anxious to be with her.
+
+He tried the gate but it was locked; there was nothing for it but to
+climb the wall, and as he was light and active he scrambled over
+without much difficulty and landed in a green tangle of roses and wild
+vines. He knocked at the house door, and stood for a while listening
+to the empty answering echoes and to the drip-drip of rain from the
+eaves. Evidently there was no one there. He drew back into the
+shrubberies; great showers of drops were shaken down on him from the
+gold-powdered mimosa blossoms that met above his head; he shook
+himself impatiently, like a dog that is disturbed while on guard. From
+where he stood he could see the gate and the grass-grown path that led
+from it to the house. The time passed very slowly. He looked at his
+watch four times in the next fifteen minutes, and he was beginning to
+wonder if he had not left Florence on a fool's errand when Olive came.
+
+He saw her fumbling with the key; it was hard to turn in the rusty
+lock, and she had to close her umbrella and stand it against the wall
+so as to have both hands free. The gate swung open slowly, creaking on
+its warped hinges. Jean noticed that she left it unlatched and that
+she looked back over her shoulder twice as she came down the path, as
+though she thought someone might be following her.
+
+She opened the house door with a key she had and went in, and he came
+after her. He stood for a moment on the threshold listening. She was
+hurrying from room to room, opening the shutters and the windows and
+letting in the light and air; the doors banged after her, and muslin
+curtains flapped like wings as the wind blew them.
+
+His heart was beating so that he thought she must hear it before she
+saw him, before his step sounded in the passage. As he came in she
+gave a sort of little cry and ran to him, and he put his arms about
+her and kissed her again and again; her dear lips that were wet and
+cold with rain, her soft brown hair, the curves of cheek and chin that
+were as sweet to feel as to see. One small hand held the lapel of his
+coat, and he was pleasantly aware of the other being laid about his
+neck. She had wanted him so much--and he had come.
+
+"Thank God, you are here, Jean. Oh, if you knew how frightened I have
+been."
+
+He kissed her once more, and then, framing her face with his hands, he
+looked down into her eyes. The blue eyes yearned to his, but there
+was fear in them still, and he saw the colour he had brought into her
+cheeks fading.
+
+"I am not worth all the trouble I have given you."
+
+"Perhaps not," he said, smiling. "Hilaire sent you a long message, but
+I want to hear what we are supposed to be doing here first."
+
+"Dear Hilaire!... Jean, you won't be angry?"
+
+"I don't promise anything," he said. "I shall probably be furious. But
+in any case, if it is going to be a long story we may as well make
+ourselves at home."
+
+"Not here! I must tell you quickly, before he comes."
+
+He noticed that she looked towards the door, and he understood that
+she was listening fearfully for the creaking of the gate, the sound of
+footsteps on the path outside, the turning of the key in the lock.
+
+"Tor di Rocca, I suppose? When is he coming?"
+
+"Between one and two."
+
+"We have at least half an hour then," he said comfortably, and drew
+her closer to him with his arm about her shoulders.
+
+"When I first came to Rome I tried for weeks to get something to do,
+but no one seemed to want lessons. Then one day Signora Aurelia's
+sister told me how poor she was. She cried, and I was very much upset
+because I felt I was a burden, and that very afternoon I found out a
+way of making money ... Jean, you won't be angry?"
+
+"No, dearest."
+
+"I became a model--" She paused, but he said nothing and she went on.
+"I sat for one man only after the first week, and he was always good
+and kind to me, always. He painted a picture of me--I think you would
+like it--and the day before yesterday he had a show of his work. A lot
+of people came. I did not see Prince Tor di Rocca, but he was there,
+and after a while he spoke to me. I had met him before and I
+understood from what he said that Mamie Whittaker had broken her
+engagement with him.
+
+"The next morning M'sieur Camille had to go out, and I was alone in
+the studio when the Prince came in and tried to make love to me. I was
+frightened, and I screamed, and just then Camille returned, and he
+knocked him down. He got up again at once. Nothing much was said, and
+he went away, but I understood that they were going to fight. I went
+home and thought about it, and when I realised that one or other of
+them might be killed I felt I could not bear it.
+
+"I am so afraid of death, Jean. I try to believe in a future life, but
+that will be different, and I want the people I love in this one;
+just human, looking tired sometimes and shabby, or happy and pleased
+about things. I remember my mother had a blue hat that suited her, and
+I can't think of it now without tears, because I long to see her
+pinning it on before the glass and asking me if it is straight, and I
+suppose I shall never see or hear that again, even if we do meet in
+heaven. Death is so absolutely the end. If only people are alive
+distance and absence don't really matter; there is always hope. And
+then, you know, Camille is so brilliant; it would be a loss to France,
+to the whole world, if he was killed."
+
+"What did you say his name was?"
+
+"Camille Michelin."
+
+"I know him then. He came to me once in Paris, after a concert, and
+fell on my neck without an introduction. Afterwards he painted my
+portrait."
+
+"He is nice, isn't he?" she said eagerly.
+
+He assented. "Well, go on. You could not let them fight--"
+
+"I went to see the Prince at his hotel, and I persuaded him to write a
+sort of apology."
+
+"You persuaded him. How?"
+
+"Jean, that man is the exact opposite of the centurion's servant; say
+'go' and he stays, 'don't do it' and he does it. And I once made the
+fatal mistake of telling him I could never love him. He did not want
+me to before, but now-- He is a spoilt boy who only cares for the
+fruit that is forbidden or withheld. It is the scaling of the orchard
+wall that he enjoys; if he could walk in by the gate in broad daylight
+I am sure he never would, or, at any rate, he would soon walk out
+again. I promised to come here alone to meet him, and not to tell
+Camille, and I have kept my promise. If you knew how frightened I
+was.... I thought you might be away, and that Hilaire perhaps could
+not come in your stead, though I knew he would if it were possible."
+
+The man left her then and went to the window, where he stood looking
+out upon the driving mist and rain that made the troubled waters of
+the lake seem grey, and shrouded all the wooded hills beyond.
+
+"Suppose I had not come," he said presently. "What would you have
+done?"
+
+"You ask that?"
+
+He turned upon her. "Yes," he said hardly, "just that."
+
+She took a small pistol from the pocket of her loose sac coat and gave
+it to him.
+
+"So you were going to shoot him? I thought--"
+
+She tried to still the quivering of her lips. "No, myself. Oh, I am
+not really inconsistent. I told you I was afraid of death. I will say
+all now and have done; I am afraid of life too, with its long slow
+pains, and most of all of what men call love. I don't want to go on,"
+she cried hysterically. "I am sick. I don't want to see, or hear, or
+feel anything any more. I have had enough. All this year I have
+struggled, and people have been kind; but friendship is a poor, weak
+thing, and love--love is hateful."
+
+She hid her face in her hands.
+
+"Rubbish!" he said, and then, in a changed voice, "My darling, you
+will be better soon. I must get you away from here."
+
+Gently he drew her hands away from her face and lifted them to his
+lips; the soft palms were wet with tears.
+
+They were standing on the threshold of an inner room. "You can go in
+here until I have done with Tor di Rocca," he said. "But first I must
+tell you that Gertrude has written to me asking me to get a divorce.
+There is a man, of course, and the case will not be defended. Olive,
+will you marry me when I am free?"
+
+"Oh, Jean, I--I am so glad."
+
+"You will marry me then?" he insisted.
+
+"How thin you are, my dear. Just a very nice bag of bones. Were--were
+you sorry when I came away?"
+
+"You little torment," he said. "Answer me."
+
+"Ask again. I want to hear."
+
+"Will you marry me?"
+
+"Yes, of course."
+
+A nightingale began to sing in the garden; broken notes, a mere echo
+of what the stars heard at night, but infinitely sweet as the soul of
+a rose made audible; and as he sang a sudden ray of sunshine shot the
+grey rain with silver. It seemed to Jean that rose-sweetness was all
+about him in this his short triumph of love; that a flower's heart
+beat against his own, that a flower's lips caressed the lean darkness
+of his cheek. There were threads of gold in the soft brown tangle of
+hair--gold unalloyed as was the hard-won happiness that made him feel
+himself invincible, panoplied in an armour of joy that should defend
+them from all slings and arrows. He was happy, and so the world seemed
+full of music; there was harmony in the swaying of tall dark
+cypresses, moved by winds that strewed the grass with torn petals of
+orange blossoms from the trees by the lake side, in the clouds'
+processional, in the patter of rain on the green shining laurel
+leaves.
+
+Laurels--his laurels had been woven in with rue, and latterly with
+rosemary for dear remembrance; he had never cared greatly for his fame
+and it seemed worthless to him now that he had realised his dream and
+gathered his rose.
+
+He was impatient to be gone, to take the woman he loved out of this
+house of sad memories, of empty echoes, of dust and rust and decay.
+Already he seemed to feel the rush of the cold night air, to hear the
+roar of Arno, hurrying to the sea, above the steady throbbing of the
+car; to see the welcoming lights of home shining out of the dark at
+the steep edge of the hills above Settignano.
+
+"About the Prince," he said presently. "Am I to fight him?"
+
+She started. "Oh, no! That would be worse than ever. I thought you
+were too English for that," she said naively.
+
+He smiled. "Well, perhaps I am, but I suppose there may be a bit of a
+scuffle. You won't mind that?"
+
+"I don't know," she said helplessly.
+
+A moment later they heard the gate creak as it swung on its hinges.
+"He is coming."
+
+They kissed hurriedly, with, on her side, a passion of farewell, and
+he would have made her go into the room beyond, but she clung to him,
+crying incoherently. "No ... no ... together ..."
+
+Tor di Rocca stopped short by the door; the smile that had been in his
+hot eyes as they met Olive's faded, and the short, Neronic upper lip
+lifted in a sort of snarl.
+
+"I don't quite understand," he said. "How did you come here? This is
+my house, Avenel."
+
+"I know it, and I do not wish to trespass on your hospitality. You
+will excuse us?"
+
+But the Prince stood in the way. "I am not a child to be played with.
+I'll not let her go. You may leave us, however," he added, and he
+stood aside as though to let him pass.
+
+Jean met his angry eyes. "The lady is unwilling. Let that be the end,"
+he said quietly.
+
+Olive watched the Italian fearfully; his face was writhen, and all
+semblance of beauty had gone out of it; its gnawing, tearing, animal
+ferocity was appalling. When he called to her she moved instinctively
+nearer to Jean, and then with the swift prescience of love threw
+herself on his breast, tried to shelter him, as the other drew his
+revolver and fired.
+
+Jean had his arm about her, but he let her slip now and fall in a
+huddled heap at his feet. She was safer there, and out of the way. The
+two men exchanged several shots, but Jean's went wide; he was hampered
+by his heavy motor coat, and the second bullet had scored its way
+through his flesh before he could get at his weapon; there were four
+in his body when he dropped.
+
+Tor di Rocca leant against the wall; he was unhurt, but he felt a
+little faint and sick for the moment. Hurriedly he rehearsed what he
+should say to the _Questore_ presently. He had met the girl in this
+house of his; Avenel, her lover, had broken in upon them; he had shot
+her and fired at the Prince himself, but without effect, and he had
+killed him in self-defence.
+
+That was plain enough, but it was essential that his should be the
+only version, and when the smoke cleared away he crossed the room to
+look at the two who must speak no word, and to make sure.
+
+The man was still alive for all the lead in him; Tor di Rocca watched,
+with a sort of cruel, boyish interest in the creature he had maimed,
+as slowly, painfully, Jean dragged himself a little nearer to where
+the girl lay, tried to rise, and fell heavily. Surely he was dead
+now--but no; his hands still clawed at the carpet, and when Tor di
+Rocca stamped on his fingers he moaned as he tried to draw them away.
+Olive lived too, but her breathing was so faint that it would be
+easily stifled; the pressure of his hand even, but Filippo shrank from
+that. He could not touch the flesh that would be dust presently
+because of him. He hesitated, and then, muttering to himself, went to
+take one of the cushions from the window seat.
+
+Out in the garden the nightingale had not ceased to sing; the
+cypresses swayed in the winds that shook the promise of fruit from
+the trees; the green and rose and gold of a rainbow made fair the
+clouds' processional. The world was still full of music, of transitory
+life and joy, of dreams that have an ending.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+
+"_Via!_" said Vincenzo, and his black, oily forefinger, uplifted, gave
+emphasis to his words. "There are no such things as ghosts. This
+princess of yours cannot be seen at moonrise, or at any other time."
+
+There is no room for faith in the swelled head of young Italy, but the
+waiter was a middle-aged man. He paused in the act of re-filling the
+customer's cup. "You do not believe, then?"
+
+The Tuscan looked at him with all the scarcely-veiled contempt of the
+North for the South. "You tell me you are a Calabrian. _Si vede!_ You
+listen to all the priests say; you go down on your knees in the mud
+when the _frati_ are carrying a wax doll about the roads; you think a
+splinter of bone from the ribs of some fool who would not enjoy life
+while it lasted will cure a dropsy or a broken leg; you hope the rain
+will stop because a holy toe-nail is exposed on the altar. Ghosts,
+visions, miracles!"
+
+Vincenzo Torrigiani was the son of a stone-cutter in the village of
+Settignano, and he had worked as a boy in the gardens of the Villa
+Fiorelli. After a while the master had noticed and had taken a fancy
+to him, chiefly on account of his ever-ready and unusually dazzling
+and expansive smile, and he had been sent to a garage in Milan for six
+months. The quick-witted Florentine learned a great many things in a
+short time besides the necessary smattering of mechanics and the
+management of cars, and on his return he displayed many new airs and
+graces in addition, fortunately, to the same old smile. Later on he
+spent the obligatory two years in barracks, in a regiment of
+Bersaglieri, and came back to Avenel's service plus a still more
+varied knowledge of the world, a waxed moustache, and a superficial
+tendency to atheism. He was always delighted to air his views, and he
+fixed the shocked waiter now with a glittering eye as he proceeded to
+recite his unbelief at some length.
+
+"God is merely man's idea of himself at his best, and the devil is his
+idea of other people at their worst," he concluded.
+
+"Would you spend a night alone in this haunted house?"
+
+"_Sicuro!_"
+
+"Perhaps you will have to if your master takes the place. He has gone
+to look at it."
+
+Vincenzo gulped down the last of his coffee. "I must go," he said, but
+he was much too Italian to understand that a man in a hurry need not
+count his change twice over or bite every piece of silver to make
+sure of it.
+
+It was nearly one o'clock when, having outdistanced the pack of
+beggars that followed at his heels through the narrow streets of the
+town, he came out upon the broad, tree-shadowed upper road. He had
+stopped for a moment in the shelter of the high wall of the Capuchin
+convent to light a cigarette, and thereafter he went on unseeingly, in
+a brown study. Had he or had he not paid two soldi more than he should
+have done for the packet? A Calabrian would cheat, if possible, of
+course.
+
+When, after much mental arithmetic, Vincenzo solved the problem to his
+own satisfaction the little scrap of bad tobacco in its paper lining
+was smoked out. He looked at his watch, a Christmas present from Jean,
+and seeing that it was past the hour he began to wonder. There were no
+ghosts, and in any case they were not dangerous in broad daylight.
+There were no ghosts, but what was the signorino doing all this while
+in an empty house? The car was there, drawn up at the side of the road
+under the trees, and Vincenzo fussed round it, pulling the tarpaulin
+covers more over the seats; he had them in place when it occurred to
+him to look underneath for the fur rug. It was not there.
+
+"_Dio mio!_" he cried excitedly. "It has been stolen."
+
+Someone passing by must have seen it and taken it, probably someone
+with a cart, as it would be heavy to carry. The thief could not have
+gone far, and Vincenzo thought that if he drove the car towards Castel
+Gandolfo he might catch him, whoever he was--charcoal-burner from the
+woods beyond Rocca di Papa, peasant carting barrels of Frascati wine,
+or perhaps a _frate_ from the convent. However, he dared not attempt
+it as the signorino had said "Wait."
+
+After a few minutes of miserable uncertainty, during which he invoked
+the assistance of the saints--"_Che fare! Che fare! Santa Vergine,
+aiutatemi!_" he decided to go and find the signorino himself. He was
+half way down the lane when he heard shots. He had been hurrying, but
+he began to run then, and the last echo had not died away when he
+reached the gate of the Villino. It creaked on its hinges as he passed
+in, but no one in the house was listening for it now. He went in at
+the door, and now he was very swift and silent, very intent. There was
+a smell of powder in the passage, and someone was moving about in the
+room beyond. Vincenzo felt for the long sharp knife in his hip pocket
+before he softly turned the handle of the door.
+
+"Signore! What has happened?"
+
+Filippo Tor di Rocca started violently and uttered a sort of cry as he
+turned to see the man who stood on the threshold staring at him. There
+was a queer silence before he spoke, moistening his lips at almost
+every word.
+
+"I--I--you heard shots, I suppose."
+
+The servant's quick eyes noted the recent disorder of the room: chairs
+overturned, white splinters of plaster fallen from the ceiling, a
+mirror broken. Into what trap had his master fallen? What was there
+hidden behind the table--on the floor? There were scrabbled
+finger-marks--red marks--in the dust.
+
+"I was here with a lady whom I wished to take this house when a man
+burst in upon us. He shot her, and tried to shoot me, and I drew upon
+him in self-defence." The Prince spoke haltingly. He had not been
+prepared to lie so soon.
+
+"What are you doing with that cushion?"
+
+Filippo looked down guiltily at the frilled thing he held. "I was
+going to put it under her head," he began, but the other was not
+listening. He had come forward into the room and he had seen. The
+huddled heap of black and grey close at the Prince's feet was human--a
+woman--and he knew the young pale face, veiled as it was in brown,
+loosened hair threaded with gold. A woman; and the man who lay there
+too, his dark head resting on her breast, his lips laid against her
+throat, was his master, Jean Avenel.
+
+He uttered a hoarse cry of rage. "Murderer! You did it!"
+
+But Tor di Rocca had recovered himself somewhat and the bold, hard
+face was a mask through which the red eyes gleamed wickedly. "Fool!"
+he answered impatiently. "It was as I said. The man was mad with
+jealousy. There is his pistol on the floor. I am going now to inform
+the authorities and to fetch the _carabinieri_."
+
+He went out, and Vincenzo did not try to prevent him.
+
+"Signorino! signorino! answer me. _Madonna benedetta!_ What shall I
+say to Ser 'Ilario?" The little man's face worked, and tears ran down
+his cheeks as he knelt there at his master's side, stooping to feel
+for the fluttering of the faint breath, the beating of the pulse of
+life. Surely there was no mortal wound--the shoulder--yes; and the
+side, and the right arm, since all the sleeve was soaked in warm
+blood.
+
+All those who have been dragged down into the great darkness that
+shrouds the gate of Death know that the first sense vouchsafed to
+the returning soul is that of hearing. There was a sound of the sea
+in Jean's ears, a weary sound of wailing and distress, through which
+words came presently by ones and twos and threes. Words that seemed
+a long way off, and yet near, as though they were stones dropped
+upon him from a great height: ... signorina ... not mortal ...
+healed ... care ... twenty masses to the Madonna at the _Santissima
+Annunziata_ ...
+
+Sight came next as the sea that had roared about him seemed to ebb,
+leaving him still on the shore of this world. He opened his eyes and
+lay for a moment staring up at the white ceiling until full
+consciousness returned, and with it the sharp, stabbing pain of his
+wounds, the acrid taste of blood in his mouth, the remembrance of
+love. Olive.... Had he not tried to reach her and failed? He groaned
+as he turned his aching head now on the pillow to see her where she
+lay.
+
+Vincenzo had cared for his master, had slit up that red, wet sleeve
+with his sharp knife, and had bandaged the torn flesh as well as he
+was able; and now, very gently, but without any skill, he was fumbling
+at the girl's breast.
+
+Jean made an effort to speak but his lips made no intelligible sounds
+at first. The servant came running to him joyfully nevertheless.
+"Signorino! You are better?"
+
+The kind brown eyes smiled through the dimness of their pain.
+
+"Good Vincenzo ... well done. She ... she's not dead?"
+
+"Oh, no, signorino--at least--I am not sure," the man faltered.
+
+"The wound is near the heart, is it not? Lay her down here beside me
+and I will keep it closed with my hand," Jean said faintly. "Lift her
+and lay her down here in the hollow of my unhurt arm."
+
+"No ... no!" she had cried. "Together." No other man should touch
+her--if she died it must be in his arms. How still she was, how little
+warmth of life was there to cherish, how small a fluttering of the
+dear heart under his hand's pressure....
+
+"Go now and get help."
+
+Vincenzo made no answer, but his eyes were like those of a faithful
+dog, anguished, appealing, and he knelt to kiss the poor fingers that
+had been bruised under that cruel heel before he went out of the room.
+
+Very softly he closed and locked the door, and then stood for a while
+in the close darkness of the passage, listening. That devil--he wanted
+them to die--suppose he should be lurking somewhere about the house,
+waiting for the servant to go that he might finish his work.
+
+The Tor di Rocca were hard and swift and cruel as steel. That Duchess
+Veronica, who had brought her husband the other woman's severed head,
+wrapped in fine linen of her own weaving, as a New Year's gift!--she
+had been one of them. Then there had lived one Filippo who kept his
+younger brother chained up to the wall of some inner room of his
+Florentine palace for seventeen years, until, at last, a serving-man
+dared to go and tell of the sound of blows in the night hours, the
+moaning, the clank of a chain, and the people broke in, and hanged the
+Prince from the wrought-iron _fanale_ outside his own gate.
+
+Vincenzo knew of all these old, past horrors; the Florentines had
+made ballads of them, and sang them in the streets, and one might buy
+"_L'Assassina_," or "_Il Fratello del Principe_," printed on little
+sheets of coarse paper, on the stalls in the Mercato, for one soldo.
+So, though the house was very still, the little man drew his long
+knife and read the motto scratched on the blade before he climbed the
+stairs.
+
+"_Non ti fidar a me se il cor ti manca._"
+
+Hurriedly he passed through every room, but there was no one there,
+and so he ran out into the dripping green wilderness of torn leaves
+and storm-tossed, drenched blossoms, and up the lane, between the high
+walls of the olive orchards, to the town.
+
+Don Filippo was really gone, and he was waiting now on the platform of
+the Albano station for the train that should take him back to Rome. He
+was not, however, presenting the spectacle of the murderer fleeing
+from his crime. He was quite calm. The heat and cruelty of the Tor di
+Rocca blood flared in him, but it burned with no steady flame. He had
+not the tenacity of his forefathers; and so, though he might kill his
+brother, he would not care to torment him during long years. Hate
+palled on him as quickly as love. He was content to leave the lives of
+Jean Avenel and of Olive on the knees of the gods.
+
+There was no pity, no tenderness in him to be stirred by the
+remembrance of blue eyes dilated with fear, of loosened brown hair, of
+the small thing that had lain in a huddled heap at his feet, and he
+was not afraid of any consequences affecting him. In Italy the plea of
+jealousy covers a multitude of sins, and he was sure that a jury would
+acquit him if he were charged with murder.
+
+How many hundred years had passed since Pilate had called for water to
+wash his hands! Filippo--reminded in some way of the Roman
+governor--felt that same need. His hands were not clean--there was
+dust on them--and it seemed that the one thing that really might clog
+his thoughts and tarnish them later on was the dust on a frilled
+cushion.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+
+To some men their world is most precious when their arms may compass
+it. These are the great lovers. It seemed to Jean now that it mattered
+little whether this grey hour of rain and silence preluded life or
+death. Presently they would come to the edge of the stream called
+Lethe, and then he, making a cup of his hands, would give the woman he
+loved to drink of the waters of forgetfulness, and all remembrance of
+loneliness and tears, and of the pain that ached now in his side and
+in her shot breast would pass away.
+
+He looked down from a great height and saw:
+
+               "_the curled moon
+    Was like a little feather
+    Fluttering far down the gulf;_"
+
+and the round world, a caught fly, wrapped in a web of clouds, hung by
+a slender thread of some huge spider's spinning. There was a dark mark
+upon it that spread and reddened until it seemed to be a stain of
+blood on a woman's breast. She had been pale, but the colour had come
+again when he had kissed her. It was gone now. Was it all in the red
+that oozed between his fingers?
+
+In the twilight of his senses stray thoughts fluttered and passed like
+white moths. Was that the roar of voices? The hall was full and they
+wanted him, but he could not play again. Love was best. He would stay
+in the garden with Olive.
+
+What were they asking for? A nocturne--yes; it was getting dark, and
+the sea was rising--that was the sound of the sea.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The doctor Vincenzo had brought in rose from his knees and stood
+thoughtfully wiping his hands on a piece of lint.
+
+"We must see about extracting the bullets later on. One went clean
+through his arm and so has saved us the trouble. As to her--I am not
+sure--but I think the injury may not be so serious as it now appears.
+She was evidently stunned. She must have struck her head against the
+table in falling."
+
+"Can they be moved?" the servant asked anxiously. "My master would not
+care to stay on here. Can you take them into your house, and--and not
+say anything?"
+
+The doctor hesitated. He was a bald, grey-whiskered man, fat and
+flaccid. His cuffs were frayed and there were wine-stains on his
+shabby clothes. He was very poor.
+
+"I should inform the authorities," he said.
+
+"Oh, I don't think that is necessary. It would be worth your while
+not to."
+
+Jean's fur coat had been thrown across a chair. The doctor eyed it
+carefully. It was worth more lire than he had ever possessed at one
+time.
+
+"Very well," he said. "The vineyard across the lane is mine. We can go
+to my house that way and take them through the gate without ever
+coming out on to the road. I will go and tell my housekeeper to get
+the rooms ready."
+
+Vincenzo's face brightened. "I will go in the car to-night to fetch
+the master's brother. He is very rich. It will be worth your while,"
+he repeated.
+
+"He will be heavy to carry. Shall we be able to do it alone?"
+
+"_Via!_" cried the little man. "I am very strong. Go now and come back
+soon."
+
+When the other had left the room he crouched down again on the floor
+at Jean's feet. "Signorino! Signorino! Speak to me! Look at me!"
+
+But there was no voice now, nor any that answered.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+For a long while, it seemed, Jean was a spent swimmer, struggling to
+reach a distant shore. The cruel cross-currents drew him, great waves
+buffeted him, and the worst of it was they were hot. All the sea was
+bubbling and boiling about him, and the sound in his ears was like
+the roar of steam. There were creatures in the water, too; octopi,
+such as he had seen caught in nets by the Venetian fishermen and flung
+on the yellow sands of the Lido. He saw their tentacles flickering in
+the green curled edges of each wave that threatened to beat him down
+into the depths.
+
+Vincenzo kept them off. He was always there, sitting by the door, and
+when he was called he came running to his master's bedside.
+
+"Where is she? Don't let her be drowned! Don't let the octopi get her!
+Vincenzo! Vincenzo!" he cried, and the good fellow tried to reassure
+him.
+
+"_Sia benedetto_, signorino! They shall not have her. I will cut them
+in pieces with my knife."
+
+"What is the matter? I am quite well. Is it only the tyre? There is
+Orvieto, and the sun just risen. Is it still raining?"
+
+"No, signorino. The sun shines and it has not rained for days. It will
+soon be May."
+
+Very slowly the tide of feverish dreams ebbed, and Jean became aware
+of the iris pattern on the curtains of the bed; of the ray of sunlight
+that danced every morning on the ceiling and passed away; of the old
+woman who gave him his medicine. She was kind, and he liked to see her
+sitting sewing by lamplight, and to watch her distorted shadow
+looming gigantic in an angle of the wall. Hilaire was there too, but
+sometimes he was called away, and then Jean would hear his uneven step
+going to and fro across an uncarpeted floor, and the sound of hushed
+voices in the next room.
+
+"Hilaire, is--is it all right?"
+
+"Yes, do not be afraid. Get well," the elder man answered, but Jean
+still lay with his face turned to the wall. He was afraid. The longing
+to see Olive, to hold her once more in his arms, burned within him. He
+moved restlessly and laid his clenched hands together on the
+half-healed wound in his side.
+
+One night he slept soundly, dreamlessly, as a child sleeps, and woke
+at dawn. He raised himself on his elbow in the bed and looked about
+him, and Vincenzo came to him at once and asked him what he wanted.
+
+"Go out," he said, "and leave me alone for a while."
+
+The green painted window-shutter was unfastened, and it swung open in
+the little wind that had sprung up. Jean saw the morning star shining,
+and the widening rift of pale gold in the grey sky above the hills. He
+heard the stirring of awakened life. Birds fluttered in the laurels. A
+boy was singing as he went to his work among the vines by the lake
+side:
+
+    "_Ho da dirti tante cose._"
+
+It seemed to Jean that he too had many things to say to the woman he
+loved. He called to her faintly, in a weak, hoarse voice: "Olive!"
+
+After a while he heard her answering him from the next room.
+
+"Jean! Oh, Jean!"
+
+He lay still, smiling.
+
+
+
+           EDINBURGH
+    COLSTON AND CO. LIMITED
+           PRINTERS
+
+
+
+
+THE BLUE LAGOON
+
+By =H. DE VERE STACPOOLE=,
+
+Author of "The Crimson Azaleas," etc. 6s.
+
+    The _Times_ says: "Picturesque and original ... full of
+    air and light and motion."
+
+    The _Daily Telegraph_ says: "A hauntingly beautiful
+    story."
+
+    The _Globe_ says: "Weirdly imaginative, remote, and
+    fateful."
+
+    The _Evening Standard_ says: "A masterpiece.... It has
+    the gift of the most vivid description that makes a
+    scene live before your eyes."
+
+    The _Sunday Times_ says: "A very lovely and fascinating
+    tale, by the side of which 'Paul and Virginia' seems
+    tame indeed."
+
+    The _Morning Leader_ says: "It is a true romance, with
+    an atmosphere of true romance which few but the greatest
+    writers achieve."
+
+    The _World_ says: "Original and fascinating."
+
+    The _Nottingham Guardian_ says: "A singularly powerful
+    and brilliantly imagined story."
+
+    The _Daily Chronicle_ says: "Many able authors, an
+    unaccountable number, have written about the South Sea
+    Islands, but none that we know has written so charmingly
+    as Mr. de Vere Stacpoole in 'The Blue Lagoon.'"
+
+
+T. FISHER UNWIN, 1 ADELPHI TERRACE, LONDON
+
+
+
+
+T. FISHER UNWIN, Publisher,
+
+WORKS BY JOSEPH CONRAD
+
+
+I.
+
+AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS
+
+_Crown 8vo._, _cloth_, =6s.=
+
+"Subject to the qualifications thus disposed of (_vide_ first part of
+notice), 'An Outcast of the Islands' is perhaps the finest piece of
+fiction that has been published this year, as 'Almayer's Folly' was
+one of the finest that was published in 1895.... Surely this is real
+romance--the romance that is real. Space forbids anything but the
+merest recapitulation of the other living realities of Mr. Conrad's
+invention--of Lingard, of the inimitable Almayer, the one-eyed
+Babalatchi, the Naturalist, of the pious Abdulla--all novel, all
+authentic. Enough has been written to show Mr. Conrad's quality. He
+imagines his scenes and their sequence like a master; he knows his
+individualities and their hearts; he has a new and wonderful field in
+this East Indian Novel of his.... Greatness is deliberately written;
+the present writer has read and re-read his two books, and after
+putting this review aside for some days to consider the discretion of
+it, the word still stands."--_Saturday Review_
+
+
+II.
+
+ALMAYER'S FOLLY
+
+_Second Edition._ _Crown 8vo._, _cloth_, =6s.=
+
+    "This startling, unique, splendid book."
+
+                    Mr. T. P. O'CONNOR, M.P.
+
+"This is a decidedly powerful story of an uncommon type, and breaks
+fresh ground in fiction.... All the leading characters in the
+book--Almayer, his wife, his daughter, and Dain, the daughter's native
+lover--are well drawn, and the parting between father and daughter has
+a pathetic naturalness about it, unspoiled by straining after effect.
+There are, too, some admirably graphic passages in the book. The
+approach of a monsoon is most effectively described.... The name of
+Mr. Joseph Conrad is new to us, but it appears to us as if he might
+become the Kipling of the Malay Archipelago."--_Spectator_
+
+
+
+
+THE BEETLE. A MYSTERY
+
+By =RICHARD MARSH=. Illustrated.
+
+Eleventh Edition. 6s.
+
+    The _Daily Graphic_ says: "'The Beetle' is the kind of
+    book which you put down only for the purpose of turning
+    up the gas and making sure that no person or thing is
+    standing behind your chair, and it is a book which no
+    one will put down until finished except for the reason
+    above described."
+
+    The _Speaker_ says: "A story of the most terrific kind
+    is duly recorded in this extremely powerful book. The
+    skill with which its fantastic horrors are presented to
+    us is undeniable."
+
+
+T. FISHER UNWIN, 1 ADELPHI TERRACE, LONDON
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note
+
+Bold text is indicated with equals symbols, =like this=.
+
+Text in languages other than English is preserved as printed.
+
+Minor punctuation errors have been repaired.
+
+The following amendments have been made:
+
+    Page 164--Jocopo amended to Jacopo--"... one of the old
+    houses in the Borgo San Jacopo, ..."
+
+    Page 197--mysogynists amended to misogynists--"Olive
+    laughed. "Commend me to misogynists henceforth.""
+
+    Page 216--newsvenders amended to newsvendors--"... and
+    the narrow streets were echoing now to the hoarse cries
+    of the newsvendors ..."
+
+    Page 228--Babbuino amended to Babuino--"They went by way
+    of the Via Babuino across the Piazza di Spagna, ..."
+
+    Page 293--anyrate amended to any rate--"... I am sure he
+    never would, or, at any rate, he would ..."
+
+    Page 297--it's amended to its--"... its gnawing,
+    tearing, animal ferocity was appalling."
+
+    Second advert page--decidely amended to decidedly--"This
+    is a decidedly powerful story ..."
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive in Italy, by Moray Dalton
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