No other shape of vase is to be compared with this for
elegance; in that diaphanous prison, the flowers seemed to etherealise
and had more the air of a religious than an amatory offering.
For Andrea Sperelli was expecting Elena Muti.
He had met her only yesterday morning in the Via Condotti, where she was
looking at the shops. She had returned to Rome a day or two before,
after her long and mysterious absence. They had both been considerably
agitated by the unexpected encounter, but the publicity of the street
compelled them to treat one another with ceremonious, almost cold
politeness. However, he had said with a grave, half-mournful air,
looking her full in the eyes--'I have much to say to you, Elena; will
you come to my rooms to-morrow? Everything is just as it used to
be--nothing is changed.' To which she replied quite simply--'Very well,
I will come. You may expect me about four o'clock. I too have something
to say to you--but leave me now.'
That she should have accepted the invitation so promptly, without demur,
without imposing any conditions or seemingly attaching the smallest
importance to the matter, roused a certain vague suspicion in Andrea's
mind. Was she coming as friend or lover?--to renew old ties or to
destroy all hope of such a thing for ever? What vicissitudes had not
occurred in this woman's soul during the last two years? Of that he was
necessarily ignorant, but he had carried away with him the thrill of
emotion called up in him by Elena's glance when they suddenly met in the
street and he bent his head in greeting before her.
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