And while she gave way to the anguish and despair of a conscience which
feels all its courage oozing from it, she still had the feeling that
something of _him_ lingered in the shadows of the room and enveloped her
with all the sweetness of a passionate caress.
CHAPTER II
The next day, she arrived at the Palazzo dei Sabini, her heart beating
fast under a bunch of violets.
Andrea was looking out for her at the door of the concert-hall.
'Thanks,' he said, and pressed her hand.
He conducted her to a seat and sat down beside her.
'I thought the anxiety of waiting for you would have killed me,' he
murmured. 'I was so afraid you would not come. How grateful I am to you!
Late last night,' he went on, 'I passed your house. There was a light in
one window--the third looking towards the Quirinal--I would have given
much to know if you were up there. Who gave you those violets?' he asked
abruptly.
'Delfina,' she answered.
'Did Delfina tell you of our meeting this morning in the Piazza di
Spagna?'
'Yes--all.'
The concert began with a Quartett by Mendelssohn. The hall was already
nearly full, the audience consisting, for the most part, of foreign
ladies--fair-haired women very quietly and simply dressed, grave of
attitude, religiously silent, as in some sacred spot. The wave of music
passing over these motionless heads spread out into the golden light, a
light that filtered from above through faded yellow curtains and was
reflected from the bare white walls.
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