widely opened eyes. And the young priest was deeply touched, for this was
love, absolute love in its sudden omnipotence, true love, eternal and
juvenescent, in which ambition and calculation played no part.

Then Dario ordered the coachman to drive up to the Pincio; for, before or
after the Corso, the round of the Pincio is obligatory on fine, clear
afternoons. First came the Piazza del Popolo, the most airy and regular
square of Rome, with its conjunction of thoroughfares, its churches and
fountains, its central obelisk, and its two clumps of trees facing one
another at either end of the small white paving-stones, betwixt the
severe and sun-gilt buildings. Then, turning to the right, the carriage
began to climb the inclined way to the Pincio--a magnificent winding
ascent, decorated with bas-reliefs, statues, and fountains--a kind of
apotheosis of marble, a commemoration of ancient Rome, rising amidst
greenery. Up above, however, Pierre found the garden small, little better
than a large square, with just the four necessary roadways to enable the
carriages to drive round and round as long as they pleased. An
uninterrupted line of busts of the great men of ancient and modern Italy
fringed these roadways. But what Pierre most admired was the trees--trees
of the most rare and varied kinds, chosen and tended with infinite care,
and nearly always evergreens, so that in winter and summer alike the spot
was adorned with lovely foliage of every imaginable shade of verdure. And
beside these trees, along the fine, breezy roadways, Dario's victoria
began to turn, following the continuous, unwearying stream of the other
carriages.

Pierre remarked one young woman of modest demeanour and attractive
simplicity who sat alone in a dark-blue victoria, drawn by a
well-groomed, elegantly harnessed horse. She was very pretty, short, with
chestnut hair, a creamy complexion, and large gentle eyes. Quietly robed