and behind, beneath the long flat arch of the storm, glowed a furnace
of scarlet light. The buildings of the city were faint specks within
its fierce intensity, dimly visible through a sea of fire. St. Peter's
alone, without visible foundation or support, had consistence, form,
identity.--And between the city and the hills, waves of blue and purple
shade, forerunners of the night, stole over the Campagna towards the higher
ground. But the hills themselves were still shining, still clad in rose and
amethyst, caught in gentler repetition from the wildness of the west. Pale
rose even the olive-gardens; rose the rich brown fallows, the emerging
farms; while drawn across the Campagna from north to south, as though some
mighty brush had just laid it there for sheer lust of colour, sheer joy in
the mating it with the rose,--one long strip of sharpest, purest green.

Mrs. Burgoyne turned at last from the great spectacle to her companion.

'One has really no adjectives left,' she said. 'But I had used mine up
within a week.'

'It still gives you so much pleasure?' he said, looking at her a little
askance.

Her face changed at once.

'And you?--you are beginning to be tired of it?'

'One gets a sort of indigestion.--Oh! I shall be all right to-morrow.'

Both were silent for a moment. Then he resumed.--

'I met General Fenton in the Borgia rooms this morning.'