in a numerous family, with no prospects beyond those offered
by his profession. Nothing could have interfered more directly with the
Princess's sensible intentions for her nephew. Perhaps nothing could
have caused greater surprise to Lamberti himself. On the other hand,
Guido d'Este would have been glad, but not surprised. He rarely was.

In the course of the day he left a card at the Palazzo Massimo for the
Countess Fortiguerra, and as he turned away he regretted that he could
not ask for her, and see her, and possibly see her daughter also. That
was evidently out of the question as yet, according to his social laws,
but his regret was real. It was long since any woman's face had left him
more than a vague impression of good looks, or dulness, but he had
thought a good deal about Cecilia Palladio since he had met her, and he
knew that he wished to talk with her again, however much he might resent
the idea that he was meant to marry her. She was the first young girl he
had ever known who had not bored him with platitudes or made
conversation impossible by obstinate silence.

It was true that he had not talked with her much, and at first it had
seemed hard to talk at all, but the ice had been broken suddenly, and
for a few minutes he had found it easy. As for the chilling coldness of
her last words, he could account for that easily enough. Like himself,
she had seen that a marriage had been planned for her without her
knowledge, and, like him, she had resented the trap. For a while she had
forgotten, as he had done, but had remembered suddenly when they were
about to part. She had meant to show him plainly that she had not had
any voice in the matter, and he liked her the better for it, now that he
understood her meaning.

She was like the Psyche, he thought, and it occurred to him that he
could buy a cast of the statue. He had always thought it beautiful. He
strolled through narrow streets in the late afternoon till he came to
the shop of a dealer in casts, of whom he had once bought something, and
he went in. The man had what he wanted, and he examined it carefully.

She was not like the Psyche after all, and the crude white plaster
shocked his taste for the first time. If the marble original had been in
Rome, instead of in Naples, he could have gone to see it. He left the
shop disappointed, and walked slowly towards the Farnese palace. The day
seemed endless, and there was no particular reason why all days should