"Trinità de' Monti--eighteen," said Elena.

"Is it late?"

"It must be half-past eight at least, sir."

"We'll take Joseph to bed then."

He was putting his arms about the boy to lift him when a

slippery-sloppery step was heard on the stairs, followed by a hurried

knock at the door.

It was the old Garibaldian porter, breathless, bareheaded, and in his

slippers.

"Father!" cried Elena.

"It's she. She's coming up."

At the next moment a lady in evening dress was standing in the hall. It

was Donna Roma. She had unclasped her ermine cloak, and her bosom was

heaving with the exertion of the ascent.

"May I speak to Mr. Rossi?" she began, and then looking beyond Elena and

seeing him, where he stood above the sleeping child, a qualm of

faintness seemed to seize her, and she closed her eyes for a moment.

David Rossi's face flushed to the roots of his hair, but he stepped

forward, bowed deeply, led the way to the sitting-room, and, with a

certain incoherency in his speech, said: "Come in! Elena will bring the lamp. I shall be back presently."

Then, lifting little Joseph in his arms, he carried him up to bed,

tucked him in his cot, smoothed his pillow, made the sign of the cross

over his forehead, and came back to the sitting-room with the air of a

man walking in a dream.

VIII

Being left alone, Roma looked around, and at a glance she took in

everything--the thin carpet, the plain chintz, the prints, the

incongruous furniture. She saw the photograph on the piano, still

standing open, with a cylinder exposed, and in the interval of waiting

she felt almost tempted to touch the spring. She saw herself, too, in

the mirror above the mantel-piece, with her glossy black hair rolled up

like a tower, from which one curly lock escaped on to her forehead, and

with the ermine cloak on her shoulders over the white silk muslin which

clung to her full figure.

Then she heard David Rossi's footsteps returning, and though she was now

completely self-possessed she was conscious of a certain shiver of fear,

such as an actress feels in her dressing-room at the tuning-up of the

orchestra. Her back was to the door and she heard the whirl of her skirt

as he entered, and then he was before her, and they were alone.

He was looking at her out of large, pensive eyes, and she saw him pass

his hand over them and then bow and motion her to a seat, and go to the

mantel-piece and lean on it. She was tingling all over, and a certain

glow was going up to her face, but when she spoke she was mistress of

herself, and her voice was soft and natural.




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