"I remember now! It was 'Dieu vous garde' signor!"

He bent his head reverentially.

"Merci mille fois, mademoiselle! Dieu vous garde--vous aussi. Au
revoir."

And clasping my hand with a light yet friendly pressure, he closed
the door of his room behind me. Once alone in the passage, the sense
of high elation and contentment that had just possessed me began
gradually to decrease. I had not become actually dispirited, but a
languid feeling of weariness oppressed me, and my limbs ached as
though I had walked incessantly for many miles. I went straight to
my own room. I consulted my watch; it was half-past one, the hour at
which the hotel luncheon was usually served. Mrs. Everard had
evidently not returned from her drive. I did not care to attend the
table d'hote alone; besides, I had no inclination to eat. I drew
down the window-blinds to shut out the brilliancy of the beautiful
Southern sunlight, and throwing myself on my bed I determined to
rest quietly till Amy came back. I had brought the "Letters of a
Dead Musician" away with me from Cellini's studio, and I began to
read, intending to keep myself awake by this means. But I found I
could not fix my attention on the page, nor could I think at all
connectedly. Little by little my eyelids closed; the book dropped
from my nerveless hand; and in a few minutes I was in a deep and
tranquil slumber.