e himself up to the fictions of his
hope and his desire. He took the little jewelled skull out of its case
and examined it carefully. The tiny diamond teeth flashed back at him in
the firelight, and the rubies lit up the shadowy orbits. Behind the
smooth ivory brow time pulsed unceasingly--_Ruit Hora_. Who was the
artist who had contrived for his Hippolyta so superb and bold a fantasy
of Death, at a period too when the masters of enamelling had been wont
to ornament with tender idylls the little watches destined to warn
Coquette of the time of the rendezvous in the parks of Watteau? The
modelling gave evidence of a masterly hand--vigorous and full of
admirable style; altogether it was worthy of a fifteenth century artist
as forcible as Verrocchio.

'I recommend this clock to your consideration.' Andrea could not help
smiling a little at Elena's words uttered in so peculiar a tone after so
cold a silence. He was assured that she intended him to put the
construction upon her words which he had afterwards done, but then why
retire into impenetrable reserve again--why take no further notice of
him--what ailed her? Andrea lost himself in a maze of conjecture.
Nevertheless, the warm atmosphere of the room, the luxurious chair, the
shaded lamp, the fitful gleams of firelight, the aroma of the tea--all
these soothing influences combined to mitigate his pain. He went on
dreamingly, aimlessly, as if wandering through a fantastic labyrinth.
With him reverie sometimes had the effect of opium--it intoxicated him.

'May I take the liberty of reminding the Signor Conte that he is
expected at the Casa Doria at seven o'clock,' observed his valet in a
subdued and discreet murmur, one of his offices being to jog his
master's memory. 'Everything is ready.'

He went into an adjoining octagonal room to dress, the most luxurious
and comfortable dressing-room any young man of fashion could possibly
desire. On a great Roman sarcophagus, transformed with much taste into a
toilet table, were ranged a selection of cambric handkerchiefs, evening
gloves, card and cigarette cases, bottles of scent, and five or six
fresh gardenias in separate little pale blue china vases--all these
frivolous and fragile things on this mass of stone, on which a funeral
_cortege_ was sculptured by a masterly hand!

CHAPTER IV

At the Casa Doria, speaking of one thing and another, the Duchess
Angelieri remarked--'It seems that Laura Miano and Elena Muti have