exities of Maddalena's theory of roasting, sweeping, and
bed-making.

Rowland took rooms at a villa a trifle nearer Florence, whence in
the summer mornings he had five minutes' walk in the sharp, black,
shadow-strip projected by winding, flower-topped walls, to join his
friends. The life at the Villa Pandolfini, when it had fairly defined
itself, was tranquil and monotonous, but it might have borrowed from
exquisite circumstance an absorbing charm. If a sensible shadow rested
upon it, this was because it had an inherent vice; it was feigning a
repose which it very scantily felt. Roderick had lost no time in giving
the full measure of his uncompromising chagrin, and as he was the
central figure of the little group, as he held its heart-strings all in
his own hand, it reflected faithfully the eclipse of his own genius. No
one had ventured upon the cheerful commonplace of saying that the change
of air and of scene would restore his spirits; this would have had,
under the circumstances, altogether too silly a sound. The change in
question had done nothing of the sort, and his companions had, at least,
the comfort of their perspicacity. An essential spring had dried up
within him, and there was no visible spiritual law for making it flow
again. He was rarely violent, he expressed little of the irritation and
ennui that he must have constantly felt; it was as if he believed that
a spiritual miracle for his redemption was just barely possible, and was
therefore worth waiting for. The most that one could do, however, was
to wait grimly and doggedly, suppressing an imprecation as, from time to
time, one looked at one's watch. An attitude of positive urbanity toward
life was not to be expected; it was doing one's duty to hold one's
tongue and keep one's hands off one's own windpipe, and other people's.
Roderick had long silences, fits of profound lethargy, almost of
stupefaction. He used to sit in the garden by the hour, with his head
thrown back, his legs outstretched, his hands in his pockets, and his
eyes fastened upon the blinding summer sky. He would gather a dozen
books about him, tumble them out on the ground, take one into his lap,
and leave it with the pages unturned. These moods would alternate with
hours of extreme restlessness, during which he mysteriously absented
himself. He bore the heat of the Italian summer like a salamander, and
used to start off at high noon for long walks over the hills. He often
went down int