house. No one of his relatives
had ever known the truth about his wife except his father, who had died
with the secret, and it was not likely that any one should ask
questions. If any one did, he would certainly not satisfy such
curiosity. But he cared little for society, and spent his time either
alone with books and wine, or in occasional excursions into the artist
world, where his eccentricities excited little remark, and where he met
men who secretly sympathized with the Italian revolutionary movement,
and dabbled in conspiracies which rather amused than disquieted the
papal government.

Though Gloria was at that time but little more than sixteen years of
age, her father took her with him to little informal parties at the
studios or even at the houses of artists, where there was often good
music, and clever if not serious conversation. The conventionalities of
age were little regarded in such circles. Gloria appeared, too, much
older than she really was, and her marvellous voice made her a centre of
attraction at an age when most young girls are altogether in the
background. Dalrymple never objected to her singing on such occasions,
and he invariably listened with closed eyes and folded hands, as though
he were assisting at a religious service. Her voice was like her
mother's, excepting that it was pitched higher, and had all the compass
and power necessary for a great soprano. Dalrymple's almost devout
attitude when Gloria was singing was the only allusion, if one may call
it so, which he ever made to his dead wife's existence, and no one who
watched him knew what it meant. But he was often more silent than usual
after she had sung, and he sometimes went off by himself afterwards and
sat for hours in one of the old wine cellars near the Capitol, drinking
gloomily of the oldest and strongest he could find. For he drank more or
less perpetually in the evening, and wine made him melancholic and
morose, though it did not seem to affect him otherwise. Little by
little, however, it was dulling the early keenness of his intellect,
though it hardly touched his constitution at all. He was lean and bony
still, as in the old days, but paler in the face, and he had allowed his
red beard to grow. It was streaked with grey, and there were small,
nervous lines about his eyes, as well as deep furrows on his forehead
and face.

Dalrymple had found in the artist world a man who was something of a
companion to him at times,--a very