ssy bank, with a volume of Shelley in his hand, and a case of thick
Egyptian cigarettes by his side. In his ears was the whispering of the
faint breeze amongst the pines, and the soft murmuring of the sea,
hundreds of feet below, seen like a brilliant piece of patchwork through
the fluttering leaves and dark tree-trunks which surrounded him. There
was nothing to disturb the sweet silence of the drowsy afternoon. It was
a charming spot which he had chosen, and he was quite alone. People,
amongst whom for the last few weeks his name had become a fruitful
source of conversation, were already beginning to fancy him flying
across the country in an express train, or loitering on the docks at
Liverpool, waiting for an Atlantic liner, or sitting at home trembling
and fearful, struggling to hide his guilt beneath a calm exterior. But,
as a matter of fact, he was doing none of these things. The harsh
excitement of the busy gossips, and their stern judgment, troubled him
nothing, for he was unconscious of them. He was away in thoughtland,
dreaming of a fair, proud young face seen first on the rude pavement of
an old Italian town, where its sweet composed freshness, amongst a pile
of magnificent ruins, had captivated his artist's sense almost before it
had touched his man's heart. He thought of the narrow street shutting in
the sky till, looking upwards, it seemed like one deep band of glorious
blue--of the ruined grey palace, with still some traces left of its
former stately grace, and of the fountain playing in the moss-encrusted
courtyard, gleaming like silver in the sunlight as it rose and fell into
the worn stone basin. Here, where the very air seemed full of the
records of a magnificent decay, everything seemed to form a fitting
framework in his memory for that one face. It had been an artist's
dream--or had it been the man's? Never the latter; he told himself
sadly. Such were not for him. It had been better far that he had never
seen her again. Before, the memory had been a very sweet one, stored
away in his mind amongst all the great and beautiful things he had seen
in his wanderings, always with a dainty freshness clinging to it, as
though it had lain carefully preserved in perfume and spices. Was this
new joy, of having seen and spoken to her, a better thing? this vague
unsettlement of his being, which played havoc with his thoughts, and
stirred up a whole host of strange new feelings in his heart? Surely
not! It seemed to