he midst of much
elaborate gold tooling, with the Valdeschi arms and coronet.
Half-consciously examining it, he became aware presently that it was a
volume of the poems of Ronsard. And then somehow it fell open, at a
page that was marked by the insertion of an empty envelope.

The envelope caught Anthony's eye, and held it; and that was scarcely
to be wondered at, for, in his own unmistakable handwriting, it was
addressed to Madame Torrebianca, at the New Manor, Craford, England,
and its upper corner bore an uncancelled twenty-five centime Italian
postage-stamp.

On the page the envelope marked was printed the sonnet, "Voicy le Bois."

What happened at this moment in Anthony's head and heart? Many things
must have become rather violently and painfully clear to him; many
things must have changed their aspect, and adjusted themselves in new
combinations. Many things that had seemed trifling or meaningless must
have assumed significance and importance. No doubt he was shaken by
many tumultuous thoughts and feelings. But outwardly he appeared
almost unmoved. He returned the book to the table, and began to walk
backwards and forwards, his head bowed a little, as one considering.
Sometimes he would give a brief low laugh. Sometimes he would look up,
frown, and vaguely shake his fist. Once, shaking his fist, he
muttered, "Oh, that Adrian!" And once, with a delighted chuckle, "By
Jove, how awfully she 'll be dished!"

Then Father Angelo came back.

"The Countess is in the garden. May I show you the way?" he said.

But when they had reached the marble bridge that connects the garden
with the Palace, "I think it will be best if you see her alone," the
Father said. "Cross this bridge, and keep straight up the path beyond,
and you will come to her."

"Thank you, Father," said Anthony, and crossed the bridge.

He crossed the marble bridge, and kept straight up the path beyond.
And there, at the end of the path, in the shade of an oleander-tree,
with her back towards him, stood a young woman--a young woman in a
pearl-grey frock, and a garden-hat, beneath which one could see that
her hair was dark. Young women's backs, however, in this world, to the
undiscerning eyes of men, are apt to present no immediately
recognizable characteristic features; and so if it had n't been for
Ronsard, I don't know what would have happened.

It was very still in the garden. The birds were taking their afternoon
siesta. The bre