from her former point of view to another almost as
extreme. The return to Florence, the taking up of existence in the
secluded villa, had been like the incidents of a dream; then, in the
days that had succeeded--in the early mornings, or the late
evenings--as she sat upon the marble rim of the drowsy fountain in the
garden, gazed down from Fiesole upon the sleeping Roman amphitheatre,
or knelt in a dim recess of the old church of San Dominico, rendered
mystical by the smell of incense and the flicker of wax tapers, the
dream had shaped itself. It had become a tapestry, into the pictures of
which many figures were woven, but where only two took place and
prominence--her own and one other.

For in those silent hours the thought of Gore--the remembrance of
Gore--had come back to her as tangible things. In that solitude peopled
by imagination, she had forgotten the hurt vanity, the bitter
disappointment, that had clothed her last interview with him; and
remembered only that, seeing fit to reprove her, he had dared to do
so--that, seeing the brink upon which she had stood, he had put out his
hand to draw her back.

And, standing in this new light, Gore became an ideal, a being apart,
endowed with endless power to inspire high deeds. An idealist born,
Clodagh was created to make-believe. The make-believes were probably
the swaying of an impulsive mind from one emotional pole to the other;
but in this case, at least, benefit accrued. She developed a sudden
gentle tolerance of Milbanke--an altogether unprecedented care for his
comfort and well-being.

The working of this profoundly subtle emotion was far too deep to be
even guessed at by herself. And had any student of human nature told
her that the new tenderness for the timid, unassuming husband, who made
so few demands upon her consideration, arose from the fact that another
man had crossed her life--rousing at once her imagination, her
antagonism, and her admiration, showing her new depths in the world
around her, new possibilities within herself--she would have been both
incredulous and indignant.

But no student of human nature visited the villa. And she lived
undisturbed in her atmosphere of dreams. Whether the vague,
subconscious thought that Gore, away in his own world, might hear of
her graver attitude towards life and might secretly approve, ever lent
zest to her self-imposed duties, it would have been impossible to say;
but certain it is that if the thought ca