fresh interest. She looked round the room, she looked out of the window.
"Why do you stay here? It is much pleasanter in the garden," she
remarked.

"I came here to seek for consolation. To-day began for me with a tragic
misadventure," John replied.

Annunziata's eyes grew big, compassionating him, and, at the same time,
bespeaking a lively curiosity.

"Poor Prospero," she gently murmured. "What was it?" on tip-toe she
demanded.

"Well," he said, "when I rose, to go for my morning swim, I made an
elaborate toilet, because I hoped to meet a certain person whom, for
reasons connected with my dignity, I wished to impress. But it was
love's labour lost. The certain person is an ornament of the uncertain
sex, and didn't turn up. So, to console myself, I came here."

Annunziata looked round the room again. "What is there here that can
console you?"

"These," said John. His hand swept the pictured walls.

"The paintings?" said she, following his gesture. "How can they console
you?"

"They're so well painted," said he, fondly studying the soft-coloured
canvases. "Besides, these ladies are dead. I like dead ladies."