ever new, for ever mysterious.

'What time is it?' Andrea asked of Stephen.

It was about nine o'clock. Feeling somewhat tired, he determined to have
a sleep: also, that he would see no one that day and spend the evening
quietly at home. Seeing that he was about to re-enter the life of the
great world of Rome, he wished, before taking up the old round of
activity, to indulge in a little meditation, a slight preparation; to
lay down certain rules, to discuss with himself his future line of
conduct.

'If any one calls,' he said to Stephen, 'say that I have not yet
returned; and let the porter know it too. Tell James I shall not want
him to-day, but he can come round for orders this evening. Bring me
lunch at three--something very light--and dinner at nine. That is all.

He fell asleep almost immediately. The servant woke him at two and
informed him that, just before twelve o'clock, the Duke of Grimiti had
called, having heard from the Marchesa d'Ateleta that he had returned to
town.

'Well?'

'Il Signor Duca left word that he would call again in the afternoon.'

'Is it still raining? Open the shutters wide.'

The rain had stopped, the sky was lighter. A band of pale sunshine
streamed into the room and spread over the tapestry representing _The
Virgin with the Holy Child and Stefano Sperelli_, a work of art brought
by Giusto Sperelli from Flanders in 1508. Andrea's eyes wandered slowly
over the walls, rejoicing in the beautiful hangings, the harmonious
tints; and all these things so familiar and so dear to him seemed to
offer him a welcome. The sight of them afforded him intense pleasure,
and then the image of Maria Ferres rose up before him.

He raised himself a little on the pillows, lit a cigarette and abandoned
himself luxuriously to his meditations. An unwonted sense of comfort and
well-being filled his body, while his mind was in its happiest vein. His
thoughts mingled with the rings of smoke in the subdued light in which
all forms and colours assume a pleasing vagueness.

Instead of reverting to the days that were past, his thoughts carried
him forward into the future.--He would see Donna Maria again in two or
three months--perhaps much sooner; there was no saying. Then he would
resume the broken thread of that love which held for him so many obscure
promises, so many secret attractions. To a man of culture, Donna Maria
Ferres was the Ideal Woman, Baudelaire's _Amie avec des hanches_, the
perfect _Conso