lichens. A large archway, closed by double
doors, in the centre of the façade, gave
access to a paved courtyard open to the
sky. Around the courtyard ran an open
arcade—called here a loggia—and from it
opened various doors leading to the interior
of the dwelling. The roof was covered
with ancient tiles, mellowed into a rich
sombre brown by time and sunshine. And
from it, at one end of the building, rose a
square tower, also tiled, and with
overhanging penthouse eaves.

There was something melancholy and
forlorn in the exterior aspect of the house.
The crumbling plaster, the shut jalousies,
the moss-grown uneven pavement before the
door, the brooding stillness that hung over
the whole place—a stillness that seemed of
death rather than sleep—were all depressing.

Paul held open a low door, beneath the
loggia, for Veronica to pass.

She entered a shady corridor, whose
marble pavement seemed icy cold to one
coming from without. A moment ago she
had longed for shade and coolness. Now,
the air of the house struck chill, and she
shuddered, drawing the cloak around her.

At the end of the corridor was a large
saloon. The floor was still covered with a
rich and very thick carpet, contrary to
Italian usage, which requires that all
carpets be removed from the marble or
painted brick floors, in summer. There
were luxurious chairs, and sofas, and
ottomans; cabinets of rare workmanship
and costly materials; silken hangings and
gold-framed mirrors in the saloon. It had a
lofty, vaulted ceiling adorned with colossal
stucco garlands, white on a blue ground.
The air was faint with the rich perfume of
flowers, disposed in massive groups about
the room; and only a dim sea-green twilight
filtered in through the closed jalousies.

Sir John Gale was lying on a couch
when Veronica entered. He rose when she
appeared, took her hand, and led her to a
chair. He was more high-shouldered than
ever, and lean; and in the greenish light
his face looked ghastly. Paul had followed
Veronica to his master's presence, and had
waited an instant; but at a wave of Sir
John's hand he had withdrawn, closing the
door noiselessly after him.

Veronica tossed her broad-brimmed hat
on to an ottoman near her, and threw
herself back in her chair with an air of
consummate languor.

Sir John's eyes were accustomed to the
dimness. He could see her better than she
could see him, and he watched her with a
half-admiring, half-savage glance.

"You have been out," he said, after a
silence of some minutes.

She slightly bent her head.

"I thought that you had been taking a
siesta in your own apartments."

She made a negative sign without
speaking.

"Am I not deemed worthy of the honour
of a word?" asked Sir John; and though
his mouth smiled as he said it, his eyebrows
frowned.

"Too hot to talk!" murmured Veronica.

"If you had remained indoors, as I have
so frequently advised, at this hour, you
would not now have been overcome by the
heat, which is, of course, my first consideration;
and I should have enjoyed the pleasure
of your conversation."

Veronica shrugged her shoulders, and
smiled disdainfully.

"Well, perhaps you are right," said Sir
John, answering the smile with a sneer
Mephistopheles might have owned.
"Perhaps you would not have made yourself
agreeable if you had stayed in. But at all
events you would have done more wisely
for yourself. You positively run the risk
of getting a coup de soleil by running out
in this incautious manner!"

Veronica sighed a little impatient sigh,
and pulling down a rich plait of her hair,
drew its glossy length languidly across and
across her lips.

"Magnificent!" said Sir John, softly,
after contemplating her for some time.

She looked up inquiringly.

"Magnificent hair! Quantity, quality,
and hue, all superb! I never knew but one
other woman with such an abundance of
hair as you have. And hers was blonde,
which I don't admire."

The expression of his admiration had not
lost its power to charm her. Indeed it
may be said that to hear her beauty praised
by any lips, however false and coarse,
was now the one delight of her life. That
the flattery was poisoned, she knew, as the
drunkard knows what bane he swallows in
each fiery draught. But she turned from
it no more than he refrains from the fatal
wine-cup. Her face brightened, and she
coquettishly released all the coils of her
hair with a sudden turn of her hand. It
fell in plaits, or loose rippling tresses, all
around her. Sir John looked on complacently
with a sense of ownership.

"Will you drive this evening?" asked
Veronica.