"But I am an old friend," objected Toto.

"Not if you were my mother, and the Holy Father, and Saint Peter, and
all the souls of Purgatory at once," answered the porter.

"May an apoplexy seize you!" observed Toto pleasantly, and he went
off, his pipe in his mouth.

The porter shrugged his shoulders at the imprecation, shut the door
reluctantly, and went in to supper. Upstairs, Malipieri stood at his
open window, smoking and watching the old fountain in the court. It
was evening, and a deep violet light filled the air and was reflected
in the young man's bronzed face. He was very thoughtful now, and was
not aware that he heard the irregular splash of the water in the dark
basin at the feet of the statue of Hercules, and the eager little
scream of the swallows as they shot past him, upward to the high old
eaves, where their young were, and downwards almost to the gravel of
the court, and in wide circles and madly sudden curves. The violet
light faded softly, and the dusk drank the last drop of it, and the
last swallow disappeared under the eaves; but still Malipieri leaned
upon the stone window-sill, looking down.

For a long time he thought of Signor Bruni. He wondered whether he had
ever seen the man before, or whether the face only seemed familiar
because it was the type of a class of faces all more or less alike,
all intensely respectable and not without refinement, expressing a
grave reticence that did not agree with the fluent speech, and a
polite reserve at odds with the inquisitive nature that revealed
itself.