Her eyes wandered to the figures
on the fire-screen, faintly visible by the light of the dying logs. On
the mantelpiece a great white rose in one of the vases was dropping its
petals softly, languidly, one by one, giving an impression of something
subtly feminine and sensuous. The cup-like petals rested delicately on
the marble, like flakes of snow.
Ah, how sweet that fragrant snow had been _then_! she thought.
Rose-leaves strewed the carpets, the divan, the chairs, and she was
laughing, happy in the midst of the devastation, and her happy lover was
at her feet----
A carriage stopped down in the street. She rose and shook her aching
head to banish the dull weight that seemed to paralyse her. The next
moment, Andrea entered out of breath.
'Forgive me,' he said, 'for keeping you so long, but I could not find
the porter, so I went down to the Piazza di Spagna. The carriage is
waiting for you.'
'Thanks,' answered Elena with a timid glance at him through her black
veil.
He was grave and pale but quite calm.
'I expect my husband to-morrow,' she went on in a low faint voice. 'I
will send you a line to let you know when I can see you again.'
'Thank you,' answered Andrea.
'Good-bye then,' she said, holding out her hand.
'Shall I see you down to the street? There is no one there.'
'Yes--come down with me.
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