Days passed. He could not go to Ventirose--or, anyhow, he
thought he could not. He reverted to his old habit of living
in his garden, haunting the riverside, keeping watchful,
covetous eyes turned towards the castle. The river bubbled and
babbled; the sun shone strong and clear; his fountain tinkled;
his
birds flew about their affairs; his flowers breathed forth
their perfumes; the Gnisi frowned, the uplands westward
laughed, the snows of Monte Sfiorito sailed under every colour
of the calendar except their native white. All was as it had
ever been--but oh, the difference to him. A week passed. He
caught no glimpse of the Duchessa. Yet he took no steps to get
his boxes packed.