rt her, and denied that consolation was possible in her case, she
had nevertheless listened to him with interest, and now found herself
thinking seriously of what he had said. He seemed to have put her
thoughts into shape, and to have given direction to that sense of power
she had already begun to feel. For the first time in her life she felt
something like sympathy for the Cardinal, and she lingered for some
minutes alone in the great reception-room, wondering whether she could
accomplish any of the things he had proposed to her. At all events, there
was nothing now to hinder her departure; and she thought with something
like pleasure of the rocky Sabines, the solitude of the mountains, the
simple faces of the people about her place, and of the quiet life she
intended to lead there during the next six months.

But the Cardinal went on his way, rolling along through, the narrow
streets in his great coach. Leaning far back in his cushioned seat, he
could just catch a glimpse of the people as he passed, and his quick eyes
recognised many, both high and low. But he did not care to show himself,
for he felt himself disliked, and deep in his finely organised nature
there lay a sensitiveness which was wounded by the popular hatred. It
hurt him to see the lowering glances of the poor man, and to return the
forced bow of the rich man who feared him. He often longed to be able to
explain many things to them both, to the rich and to the poor; and then,
knowing how impossible it was that he should be understood by either,
he sighed somewhat bitterly, and hid himself still deeper in his
carriage. Few men in the midst of the world have stood so wholly alone as
Cardinal Antonelli.

To-day, however, he had an appointment which he anticipated with a sort
of interest quite new to him. Anastase Gouache was coming to begin his
portrait, and Anastase was an object of curiosity to him. It would have
surprised the young Frenchman had he guessed how carefully he was
watched, for he was a modest fellow, and did not think himself of very
much importance. He allowed Donna Tullia and her friends to come to his
studio whenever they pleased, and he listened to their shallow talk, and
joined, occasionally in the conversation, letting them believe that he
sympathised with them, simply because his own ideas were unsettled. It
was a good thing for him to paint a portrait of Donna Tullia, for it made
him the fashion, and he had small scruple in agreeing