ere
makeshift duration. This principle, for that matter, Milly at present,
with a renewed flare of fancy, felt she should herself have liked to
believe in. Eugenio had really done for her more than he probably
knew--he didn't after all know everything--in having, for the wind-up
of the autumn, on a weak word from her, so admirably, so perfectly
established her. Her weak word, as a general hint, had been: "At
Venice, please, if possible, no dreadful, no vulgar hotel; but, if it
can be at all managed--you know what I mean--some fine old rooms,
wholly independent, for a series of months. Plenty of them too, and the
more interesting the better: part of a palace, historic and
picturesque, but strictly inodorous, where we shall be to ourselves,
with a cook, don't you know?--with servants, frescoes, tapestries,
antiquities, the thorough make-believe of a settlement."

The proof of how he better and better understood her was in all the
place; as to his masterly acquisition of which she had from the first
asked no questions. She had shown him enough what she thought of it,
and her forbearance pleased him; with the part of the transaction that
mainly concerned her she would soon enough become acquainted, and his
connexion with such values as she would then find noted could scarce
help growing, as it were, still more residuary. Charming people,
conscious Venice-lovers, evidently, had given up their house to her,
and had fled to a distance, to other countries, to hide their blushes
alike over what they had, however briefly, alienated, and over what
they had, however durably, gained. They had preserved and consecrated,
and she now--her part of it was shameless--appropriated and enjoyed.
Palazzo Leporelli held its history still in its great lap, even like a
painted idol, a solemn puppet hung about with decorations. Hung about
with pictures and relics, the rich Venetian past, the ineffaceable
character, was here the presence revered and served: which brings us
back to our truth of a moment ago--the fact that, more than ever, this
October morning, awkward novice though she might be, Milly moved slowly
to and fro as the priestess of the worship. Certainly it came from the
sweet taste of solitude, caught again and cherished for the hour;
always a need of her nature, moreover, when things spoke to her with
penetration. It was mostly in stillness they spoke to her best; amid
voices she lost the sense. Voices had surrounded her for weeks, a