It was raining. Andrea went to the window and stood for some time
looking out upon his beloved Rome. The piazza of the Trinita de' Monti
was solitary and deserted, left to the guardianship of its obelisk. The
trees along the wall that joins the church to the Villa Medici, already
half stripped of their leaves, rustled mournfully in the wind and the
rain. The Pincio alone still shone green, like an island in a lake of
mist.
And as he gazed, one sentiment dominated all the others in his heart;
the sudden and lively re-awakening of his old love for Rome--fairest
Rome--that city of cities, immense, imperial, unique--like the sea, for
ever young, for ever new, for ever mysterious.
'What time is it?' Andrea asked of Stephen.
It was about nine o'clock. Feeling somewhat tired, he determined to have
a sleep: also, that he would see no one that day and spend the evening
quietly at home. Seeing that he was about to re-enter the life of the
great world of Rome, he wished, before taking up the old round of
activity, to indulge in a little meditation, a slight preparation; to
lay down certain rules, to discuss with himself his future line of
conduct.
'If any one calls,' he said to Stephen, 'say that I have not yet
returned; and let the porter know it too. Tell James I shall not want
him to-day, but he can come round for orders this evening.
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