re sound and gesture, in a consummate Italian.
And the Cavaliere, too, had soul enough left to desire to speak a few
words on his own account, and call Rowland's attention to the fact that
he was not, after all, a hired cicerone, but an ancient Roman gentleman.
Rowland felt sorry for him; he hardly knew why. He assured him in a
friendly fashion that he must come again; that his house was always at
his service. The Cavaliere bowed down to the ground. "You do me too much
honor," he murmured. "If you will allow me--it is not impossible!"

Mrs. Light, meanwhile, had prepared to depart. "If you are not afraid to
come and see two quiet little women, we shall be most happy!" she said.
"We have no statues nor pictures--we have nothing but each other. Eh,
darling?"

"I beg your pardon," said Christina.

"Oh, and the Cavaliere," added her mother.

"The poodle, please!" cried the young girl.

Rowland glanced at the Cavaliere; he was smiling more blandly than ever.

A few days later Rowland presented himself, as civility demanded, at
Mrs. Light's door. He found her living in one of the stately houses of
the Via dell' Angelo Custode, and, rather to his surprise, was told she
was at home. He passed through half a dozen rooms and was ushered
into an immense saloon, at one end of which sat the mistress of the
establishment, with a piece of embroidery. She received him very
graciously, and then, pointing mysteriously to a large screen which was
unfolded across the embrasure of one of the deep windows, "I am keeping
guard!" she said. Rowland looked interrogative; whereupon she beckoned
him forward and motioned him to look behind the screen. He obeyed, and
for some moments stood gazing. Roderick, with his back turned, stood
before an extemporized pedestal, ardently shaping a formless mass
of clay. Before him sat Christina Light, in a white dress, with her
shoulders bare, her magnificent hair twisted into a classic coil, and
her head admirably poised. Meeting Rowland's gaze, she smiled a little,
only with her deep gray eyes, without moving. She looked divinely
beautiful.

CHAPTER V. Christina

The brilliant Roman winter came round again, and Rowland enjoyed it,
in a certain way, more deeply than before. He grew at last to feel that
sense of equal possession, of intellectual nearness, which it belongs
to the peculiar magic of the ancient city to infuse into minds of a
cast that she never would have produced. He became pas