Angelescu had spent the morning in the Uffizi, devoting his visit to the three or four paintings he really liked. Of these, the Madonna of the Goldfinch absorbed most of his time; the artless attitude of the children, the virginal grace of the Mother and the tender background with its suggestion of Florence in the distance, gave him the suggestion of the veiled delicacy of early spring, the faint perfume of early violets wafted from the slopes of Fiesole, the embroidery of almond-blossom against the sky. Other pictures claimed his attention, but he returned again and again to the "Cardellino," drawn by the exquisite purity of conception and execution that the divine Raphael must have acquired by some mysterious communion with angels. The face of the Madonna reminded him of someone he had known, but so vaguely that he made no attempt to capture the vague suggestion. The sweet Madonna-face continued to haunt him, and now as he lounged in his room, after luncheon, it floated before him wreathed in the pale blue fumes of his cigarette.

The years had passed over him lightly, though any close observer would have noted the slightly increased sternness discernible in the set of the mouth, the squaring of the lean jaw. The eyes were as kind as ever, the brow as calm, the hair had streaks of grey at the temples, but was no thinner than of old.

On leaving the service, he had made a two years trip round the world, and had then, after a year, spent in the capitals of Europe, joined an exploring expedition to the heart of Africa. From thence he had returned to India, and while there, a sudden desire had seized him to revisit Italy, the land of his youthful dreams. Often during these years of voluntary exile had the face and form of Ragna risen before his eyes; she had left an indelible impression on him. He had been sincere when he said and wrote, "Now and always." His was a tenacious nature, both in hate and in love, and the circumstances attending his love for Ragna had been such as to brand that passion upon his soul, as a mark made upon soft clay is fixed forever by the firing in the kiln. His love for her and his indignation at the unworthiness of her betrayer had caused him to break all the threads of his life, had made of him a wanderer upon the face of the earth. True to his word, he had never seen Prince Mirko again, after that last interview in Rome, and if he sometimes thought wistfully of the earlier days of boyish comradeship, the brutal revelation of the real character of the man had effectually killed all but a somewhat sentimental cast of memory. He had been thoroughly and simply in earnest in the letter which he had written to Ragna on leaving Rome, and her answer had hurt him. He understood her however, too well, not to read between the lines of her answer, and to see in the apparently cold and self-sufficient note, the effort of a nature grievously wounded, striving to hide that wound, even from the hand of the physician.

"She will understand in time, and will turn to me," he thought, and had been content to wait. As time went on and no word came from her, he placed her, as it were, in the inner sanctuary of heart and mind, apart from the daily interests of his life. She was not dethroned, he still awaited her summons,—it had become a habit of mind with him to believe that it would come—but he was unconsciously growing to consider the eventuality of that summons more in the light of a possibility than of a probability. This, until his visit to Rome.

It seemed to him on his arrival there, that the old memories lay in wait for him in the streets, the old pain awoke in his heart, the old indignation burned in his veins. He knew himself for a lonely man, up-rooted from his own country, and the regret for what might have been, had Ragna but accepted his proposal, aroused in him a burning resentment against fate.

Under the spur of this resurrection of feeling, he seemed to awake from a long sleep, and he wondered at the lethargy in which he had been content to lie. He saw, in the light of revivified emotion that what was lacking in his life was Ragna and what she symbolized to him: affection and home-ties, and that he now felt the want of her as a painful deprivation and no longer as a vague lack, he wondered that he had been able to go on so long leaving the course of events to chance; it seemed unworthy of his very masculine energy. Why had he waited helplessly on an improbable (he recognised the fact now), appeal? Why had he not followed the girl, or at least kept in touch with her, renewed his offer, forcibly turned her to himself? At the time he had felt that any such action would be indelicate, unworthy of him; but now, his deeper understanding showed him that he had erred on the side of too great delicacy, that the prizes of life are for those who seize them. He thought bitterly of the five wasted years.

What had Ragna done? Where had she gone? Back to Norway, perhaps?

With a faint hope of tracing her, he went to the pension in the Piazza Montecitorio, where she had stopped. Yes, the landlady remembered the Norwegian ladies, but that was over five years ago. No, they had never returned. Sorry to disappoint the Signore.

He thought of Fru Boyesen in whose care he had formerly addressed New Year's cards to Ragna, and wrote her a note asking her if she could give him any information as to her niece's whereabouts.

"She will probably not deign to answer, she will think her niece's affairs none of my business, but at least I shall have done what I could," he said to himself.

What with the insistence of old memories and the disappointment of his forlorn hope of finding some trace of Ragna, Rome had become intolerable to him, so he wended a leisurely way to Florence where he hoped to receive an answer from Fru Boyesen, and we now see him lazily stretched on a sofa in his room his mind full of Ragna, and the Madonna-face which reminded him of her, although he did not know it, the resemblance being more of expression than of feature, floating in the smoke wreaths about his head.

The window was open, and his eye went to where, far over the roofs, S. Miniato enshrined in Cypress rose white and aloof, against the background of sky. Spring was merging into early summer, and the sun beat already white and glaring on the deserted Lung' Arno below. The mountains of Vallombrosa rose cool and green at the head of the valley; it was so clear he could even distinguish the white dots of houses composing the little hamlet perched on the ledge. Down in the river an arenaiuolo poled his boat in a leisurely fashion, a long pink shirt,—the only garment he boasted—flapping limply about his thin, brown legs.

Angelescu, lying back on the couch, his hands clasped above his head, felt agreeably tired from his morning's doings, half-drowsy, yet not inclined to sleep. He felt still less inclined to read, however, his unfinished novel lay unheeded on the floor by his side and he was debating inwardly how best to pass the time till four o'clock when he could go to the sferisterio and watch a match game of pallone, when a page knocked at his door and brought him a note on a salver.

"From a lady, Signor Conte, she is waiting for the answer."

A lady? What lady could be writing to him? Some chance acquaintance of his travels perhaps, who had recognised him from a distance. He tore open the envelope and read with eyes that seemed suddenly petrified in their sockets:

"I saw in the paper that you are stopping here. I must see you, that is if you still think of me in the same way as when you wrote to me in Rome. If not, let me go away as I have come, don't try to see me. I shall await your answer.

"Ragna."

The note had evidently been written in a hurry, under pressure of some extraordinary emotion, so much the handwriting told him. For the rest, she wanted him, she appealed to him, for he read the appeal in the few words of the note. What could it mean? How did she happen to be here? He stood with the note in his hand, lost to his surroundings, fairly dazed by the unexpectedness of the summons, now that it had come. The boy ventured to remind him of his presence.

"What message shall I give the lady, Signor Conte?"

"Tell her,—or stay, I will take her the answer myself. Where is she?"

"In the drawing-room, Signor Conte."

Thrusting the note into his pocket, Angelescu strode from the room and made his way to the drawing-room with beating heart.

A graceful figure rose from the sofa to meet him, both hands outstretched. He took them and drawing Ragna to him, clasped her in his arms; she submitted for an instant, but speedily released herself.

"No, no!" she cried. "You must not! You do not know!"