ch a thing for ever? What vicissitudes had not
occurred in this woman's soul during the last two years? Of that he was
necessarily ignorant, but he had carried away with him the thrill of
emotion called up in him by Elena's glance when they suddenly met in the
street and he bent his head in greeting before her. It was the same look
as of old--so tender, so deep, so infinitely seductive from under the
long lashes.

Everything in the arrangement of the rooms showed evidences of special
loving care. Logs of juniper wood burned brightly on the hearth; the
little tea-table stood ready with its cups and saucers of Castel-Durante
majolica, of antique shape and inimitable grace, whereon were depicted
mythological subjects by Luzio Dolci, with lines from Ovid underneath in
black characters and a running hand. The light from the windows was
tempered by heavy curtains of red brocade embroidered all over with
silver pomegranates, trailing leaves and mottos. The declining sun, as
it caught the window-panes, cast the shadow of the lace blinds on the
carpet.

The clock of the Trinita struck half-past three. He had half an hour
still to wait. Andrea rose from the sofa where he had been lying and
opened one of the windows; he wandered aimlessly about the room, took up
a book, read a few lines and threw it down again; looked about him
undecidedly as if searching for something. The suspense was so trying
that he felt the necessity of rousing himself, of counteracting his
mental disquietude by physical means. He went over to the fireplace,
stirred up the logs and put on a fresh one. The glowing mass collapsed,
sending up a shower of sparks, and part of it rolled out as far as the
fender. The flames broke into a quantity of little tongues of blue fire,
springing up and disappearing fitfully, while the broken ends of the log
smoked.

The sight brought back certain memories to him. In days gone by Elena
had been fond of lingering over this fireside. She expended much art and
ingenuity in piling the wood high on the fire-dogs, grasping the heavy
tongs in both hands and leaning her head slightly back to avoid the
sparks. Her hands were small and very supple, with that tendril-like
flexibility, so to speak, of a Daphne at the very first onset of the
fabled metamorphose.

Scarcely were these matters arranged to her satisfaction than the logs
would catch and send forth a sudden blaze, and the warm ruddy light
would struggle for a moment with