the loan.

A portrait of a Conti in black velvet, by Velasquez, looked down,
coldly supercilious, at the empty armchair under which the mouse was
hiding. It could make no difference, great or small, to him, whether
the Baroness Volterra ever sat there again to talk with an ambassador;
he had sat where he pleased, undisturbed in his own house, to the end
of his days, and no one can take the past from the dead, except a
modern German historian.

Not a sound broke the stillness, except the steady plash of the water
falling into the fountain in the wide court, heard distinctly through
the closed windows. The Baroness wondered if any one were awake except
the old porter downstairs. She knew the house tolerably well. Only the
Princess and her two unmarried daughters slept in the apartment she
had entered, far off, at the very end, in rooms at the corner
overlooking the small square and the narrow street. The rest of the
old palace was surrounded by dark and narrow streets, but the court
was wide and full of sunshine. The only son of the house, though he
was now the Prince, lived on the floor above, with his young wife and
their only child, in what had been a separate establishment, after the
old Roman custom.

The Baroness went to one of the embrasures of the great drawing-room
and looked through the panes at the windows of the upper story. All
that she could see were shut; there was not a sign of life in the huge
building. Ruin had closed in upon it and all it held, softly, without
noise and without pity.

It was their own fault, of course, but the Baroness was sorry for