The roses in the tall Florentine vases, they too were waiting and
breathing out their sweetness. On the divan cover and on the walls
inscriptions on silver scrolls singing the praises of woman and of wine
gleamed in the rays of the setting sun, and harmonised admirably with
the faded colours of the sixteenth century Persian carpet. Elsewhere the
shadow was deeply transparent and as if animated by that indefinable
luminous tremor felt in hidden sanctuaries where some mystic treasure
lies enshrined. The fire crackled on the hearth, each flame, as Shelley
puts it, like a separate jewel dissolved in ever moving light. To Andrea
it seemed that at that moment every shape, every colour, every perfume
gave forth the essential and delicate spirit of its being. And yet _she_
came not, _she_ came not!
For the first time, the thought of her husband presented itself to him.
Elena was no longer free. Some months after her abrupt departure from
Rome, she had renounced the agreeable liberty of widowhood to marry an
English nobleman, Lord Humphrey Heathfield. Andrea had seen the
announcement of the marriage in a society paper in the October following
and had heard a world of comment on the new Lady Humphrey in every
country house he stayed in during the autumn. He remembered also having
met Lord Humphrey some half a score of times during the preceding winter
at the Saturdays of the Princess Giustiniani-Bandini, or in the public
sale-rooms.
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