glaring as
Aphrodite's shell.

He accused men and things of being hostile to him. He became puerile,
absurd, odious. Madame Martin, whom Choulette and the rain saddened,
thought the trip would never end. When she reached the house she found
Miss Bell in the drawing-room, copying with gold ink on a leaf of
parchment, in a handwriting formed after the Aldine italics, verses
which she had composed in the night. At her friend's coming she raised
her little face, plain but illuminated by splendid eyes.

"Darling, permit me to introduce to you the Prince Albertinelli."

The Prince possessed a certain youthful, godlike beauty, that his black
beard intensified. He bowed.

"Madame, you would make one love France, if that sentiment were not
already in our hearts."

The Countess and Choulette asked Miss Bell to read to them the verses
she was writing. She excused herself from reciting her uncertain cadence
to the French poet, whom she liked best after Francois Villon. Then she
recited in her pretty, hissing, birdlike voice.

"That is very pretty," said Choulette, "and bears the mark of Italy
softly veiled by the mists of Thule."

"Yes," said the Countess Martin, "that is pretty. But why, dear Vivian,
did your two beautiful innocents wish to die?"

"Oh, darling, because they felt as happy as possible, and desired
nothing more. It was discouraging, darling, discouraging. How is it that
you do not understand that?"

"And do you think that if we live the reason is that we hope?"

"Oh, yes. We live in the hope of what to-morrow, tomorrow, king of the
land of fairies, will bring in his black mantle studded with stars,
flowers, and tears. Oh, bright king, To-morrow!"

BOOK 2.

CHAPTER X. DECHARTRE ARRIVES IN FLORENCE

They had dressed for dinner. In the drawing-room Miss Bell was sketching
monsters in imitation of Leonard. She created them, to know what they
would say afterward, sure that they would speak and express rare ideas
in odd rhythms, and that she would listen to them. It was in this way
that she often found her inspiration.

Prince Albertinelli strummed on the piano the Sicilian 'O Lola'! His
soft fingers hardly touched the keys.

Choulette, even harsher than was his habit, asked for thread and needles
that he might mend his clothes. He grumbled because he had lost a
needle-case which he had carried for thirty years in his pocket, and
which was dear to him for the sweetness of the reminiscences a