Andrea started. A shadow stole up the little flight of steps beside the
Casa Casteldelfina leading up from the Piazzetta Mignanelli. It was not
Elena; it was some other lady, who slowly turned the corner into the Via
Gregoriana.
'What if she did not come at all?' he said to himself as he left the
window. Coming away from the colder outside air he felt the warmth of
the room all the more cosy, the scent of the burning wood and the roses
more piercing sweet, the shadow of the curtains and portieres more
delightfully mysterious. At that moment the whole room seemed on the
alert for the arrival of the woman he loved. He imagined Elena's
sensations on entering. It was hardly possible that she should be able
to resist the influence of these surroundings, so full of tender
memories for her; she would suddenly lose all sense of time and reality,
would fancy herself back at one of the old rendezvous, the Elena of
those happy days. Since nothing was altered in the _mise-en-scene_ of
their love, why should their love itself be changed? She must of
necessity feel the profound charm of all these things which once upon a
time had been so dear to her.
And now the anguish of hope deferred created a fresh torture for him.
Minds that have the habit of imaginative contemplation and poetic
dreaming attribute to inanimate objects a soul, sensitive and variable
as their own, and recognise in all things--be it form or colour, sound
or perfume--a transparent symbol, an emblem of some emotion or thought;
in every phenomenon and every group of phenomena they claim to discover
a psychical condition, a moral significance.
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