e vaguely illumined like the heroine of some Christian legend of
the childhood of a saint destined for martyrdom and future canonisation.
At the same time, it struck him what rich and varied lines might be
afforded to the design of a female figure by the undulating masses of
that black hair.

Not that it was really black, as Andrea perceived next day at dinner,
when a ray of sunshine touched the lady's head, bringing out sombre
violet lights, reflections as of tempered steel or burnished silver.
Notwithstanding its density too, it was perfectly light, each hair
seeming to stand apart as if permeated by and breathing the air. Her
conversation revealed keen intelligence and a delicate mind, much
refinement of taste and pleasure in the aesthetic. She possessed abundant
and varied culture, a vivid imagination, and the rich, descriptive
language of one who has seen many lands, lived under widely different
climes, known many people. To Andrea, she seemed to exhale some exotic
charm, some strange fascination, some spell born of the phantoms of the
far off things she had looked upon, the scenes she still preserved
before her mind's eye, the memories that filled her soul; as if she
still bore about her some traces of the sunshine she had basked in, the
perfumes she had inhaled, the strange dialects she had heard--all the
magic of these countries of the Sun.

That evening, in the great room opening off the hall, she went over to
the piano, and opening it, she said: 'Do you still play, Francesca?'

'Oh, no,' replied the Marchesa, 'I have not practised for years. I feel
that listening to others is decidedly preferable. However, I affect to
be a patroness of Art, and during the winter I gladly preside at the
execution of a little good music. Is that not so, Andrea?'

'My cousin is too modest, Donna Maria; she does something more than
merely patronise--she is a reviver of good taste. Only last February,
thanks to her, we were made acquainted with a quintett, a quartett, and
a trio of Boccherini, and besides that with a quartett of
Cherubini--music that was well-nigh forgotten, but admirable and always
new. Boccherini's adagios and minuets are deliciously fresh; only the
finales seem to me a trifle antiquated. I am sure you must know
something of his.'

'I remember having heard one of his quintetts four of five years ago at
the Conservatoire in Brussels, and I thought it magnificent--in the very
newest style and full of unexpecte