pace the old Roman streets in the autumn sun. It was too early to
meet any of his acquaintance, and too soon in the season for any
regular visiting. He did not know what to do, but allowed himself
to enjoy the sunshine and the sweet air. Presently, the sight of a
couple of Zouaves, talking together at the corner of a street,
recalled to his mind the accident which had happened to Gouache.
It would be kind to go and see the poor fellow, or, at least, to
ask after him. He had known him for some time and had gradually
learned to like him, as most people did who met the gifted artist
day after day throughout the gaiety of the winter.

At the Palazzo Montevarchi Giovanni learned that the princess had
just finished breakfast. He could hardly ask for Gouache without
making a short visit in the drawing-room, and he accordingly
submitted, regretting after all that he had come. The old princess
bored him, he did not know Faustina, who was just out of the
convent, and Flavia, who amused many people, did not amuse him in
the least. He inwardly rejoiced that he was married, and that his
visit could not be interpreted as a preliminary step towards
asking for Flavia's hand.

The princess looked up with an expression of inquiry in her
prominent blue eyes, as Sant' Ilario entered. She was stout,
florid, and not well dressed. Her yellow hair, already half gray,
for she was more than fifty years old, was of the unruly kind, and
had never looked neat even in her best days. Her bright, clear
complexion saved her, however, as it saves hundreds of middle-aged
Englishwomen, from that look of peculiar untidiness which belongs
to dark-skinned persons who take no trouble about their appearance
or personal adornment. In spite of thirty-three years of residence