window with red curtains, came the tinkle of a
piano. The church bells were ringing. Andrea felt his heart suddenly
grow heavy. The recollection of Donna Maria came back to him with a
rush, filling him with a dim sense of regret, almost of remorse. What
was she doing at this moment? Thinking? Suffering? Deep sadness fell
upon him. He felt as if something in the depths of his heart had taken
flight--he could not define what it was, but it affected him as some
irreparable loss.

He thought of his plan of the morning--an evening of solitude in the
rooms to which some day perhaps she might come, an evening, sad yet
sweet, in company with remembrances and dreams, in company with her
spirit, an evening of meditation and self-communings. In truth, he had
kept well to his promises! He was on his way to a dinner with friends
and _demi-mondaines_ and, doubtless, would go home with Clara Green
afterwards.

His regret was so poignant, so intolerable, that he dressed with
unwonted rapidity, jumped into his brougham and arrived at the hotel
before the appointed time. He found Clara ready and waiting, and offered
her a drive round the streets of Rome to pass the time till eight
o'clock.

They drove through the Via del Babuino, round the obelisk in the Piazza
del Popolo, along the Corso and to the right down the Via della
Fontanella di Borghese, returning by the Montecitorio to the Corso which
they followed as far as the Piazza di Venezia and so to the Teatro
Nazionale. Clara kept up an incessant chatter, bending, every other
minute, towards her companion to press a kiss on the corner of his
mouth, screening the furtive caress behind a fan of white feathers which
gave out a delicate odour of 'white rose.' But Andrea appeared not to
hear her, and even her caress only drew from him a slight smile.

'_Che pensi?_' she asked, pronouncing the Italian words with a certain
hesitation which was very taking.

'Nothing,' returned Andrea, taking up one of her ungloved hands and
examining the rings.

_'Chi lo sa!_' she sighed, throwing a vast amount of expression into
these three words, which foreign women pick up at once, because they
imagine that they contain all the pensive melancholy of Italian love.
'_Chi lo sa!_'

With a sudden change of humour, Andrea kissed her on the ear, slipped an
arm round her waist and proceeded to say a host of foolish things to
her. The Corso was very lively, the shop windows resplendent,
newspaper-vendor