A great many things happened in the next few days. The first floor of the Palazzo dei Sogni, where the Hunstantons lived, being vacant, Diana was made by her friends to take it for the remainder of the season; and they brought her in triumph from her hotel, where indeed she had felt herself out of place, to the vast magnificent faded rooms, so bare and yet so noble, in which the Marchesi dei Sogni had vegetated for generations. There were few things left in them except mere furniture which could be made money of; but the furniture itself would have gone long ago, had it not been for the more immediate advantage of letting the piano nobile, and the immediate disadvantage of buying other chairs and tables in modern taste. Accordingly, the beautiful rooms were still furnished as became them, with articles which, if not so old as the walls, had at least lived there for more than a century. And there was one Vandyke—indifferent the dealers said, but very splendid still to be in the private enjoyment of an English lodger,—a full-length of a melancholy dark Di Sogni of two hundred years ago, which threw still further dignity upon the lofty rooms, all opening upon one another, in which his ancestors had lived and died. Sophy and her aunt were overawed by the splendour of this presiding deity, yet ventured to suggest that a new drawing-room suite in blue satin would be “sweet,” and make everything look quite different—which no doubt was very true.

Diana, however, was entirely in her place in these rooms, and enjoyed them with that thrill of her being which she herself laughed at as a sign of superannuated youthfulness and romanticism, and which, to tell the truth, none of her friends comprehended at all. For, after all, what was Italy more than any other place? A better climate, a good many things to see, and, as Sophy thought, delightful society, and many little parties, balls, and other gentle diversions which she had never before attained to. In their hearts they all thought Diana a little absurd. But at the same time it was very pleasant to have her there, and to get the advantage of her large rooms as it grew hotter, and of her carriage, in which Mrs. Norton and Sophy went about everywhere. They had felt often that Mrs. Hunstanton was not very hospitable in respect to her little carriage, which had only one horse, and no very great accommodation. “I suppose she thinks she cannot ask one of us without the other,” Mrs. Norton had said; “but I am sure, as long as my darling had a drive now and then, I should not mind.” “If she would only have taken auntie sometimes—that is all I should have cared for,” said the girl. They were very unselfish, always preferring each other. But Diana’s carriage made everything smooth. When she went out, she had the chief seat; but when she did not go, Mrs. Norton and Sophy were quite happy. Sometimes they would take pretty Mrs. Winthrop, the American, and her little daughter, and then their airs of gentle patronage was delightful. They were very kind, always ready to be of use. “What were our blessings given to us for, but to be shared with others?” Mrs. Norton would say; “I am sure dear Diana is of that opinion.” And no doubt there crept by degrees a certain confusion into her mind on the subject, and she ceased to be quite sure that dear Diana’s opinion on this subject was more important than her own. All this Mrs. Hunstanton beheld with hostile eyes. She had no patience with Diana’s supineness. “You demoralise everybody,” she cried at last, wound up to desperation. “They were good enough little silly creatures, but now they are unendurable.” Was there perhaps a consciousness in her mind, behind this warmth of righteous indignation, that the additional importance which the two little ladies had taken upon them, and the carriage and Diana’s backing, had made a difference in their attentions to Reginald? If so, Mrs. Hunstanton would no doubt have felt that she was quite right in finding fault with such selfishness, for had not they paid court to herself assiduously until such time as they needed her no longer? Mercenary little things, both aunt and niece!

No one, however, could shake Diana out of this supineness, or could drive her into a fiery round of sight-seeing such as her friends desired. She went out and walked, roaming about the sacred places, making slow acquaintance with the things she wanted to see, spending the cool hours under the shadow of the Vandyke in these great cool melancholy rooms, sitting out in the balcony, where a faint waft of orange-blossom out of the nearest convent garden came upon the soft evening air. Fortunately there was a moon, which, so long as it lasted, whitening the loggias and high roofs of the tall houses on the other side of Arno, and casting a long silvery gleam along the course of the river between, pleased her more than anything. They said she was lazy, and they said she was sad; but Diana was no more sad than a nature finely touched is apt to be by moments everywhere, and she had more occupation every day than good Mr. Hunstanton, who was the chief supporter of the lazy theory, got through in a week. It was only her friends, however, as so often happens, who found fault with her. The general community looked with profoundest admiration upon this beautiful young woman (“though not so very young,” some people said), who was so rich, and in her own country such a great lady. Again, Diana had the advantage over a young Squire Trelawny of her own age and wealth. Much as that personage would naturally have been prized in an English colony, she was looked up to still more. She was so rich; she had so much power to give pleasure to others, and such goodwill to do it. And then to pay court to her injured no one’s amour propre, neither that of man or woman. To want to marry her even, had it gone so far as that, would have been no shame to any one. She rose easily, without any effort of her own, into something of the same princess position which she held at home. The English chaplain went to her at once, you may be sure, and got the largest subscription from her that had ever been known in the records of the church at Pisa. If she did not buy alabaster at Sophy’s favourite shop, she bought better things, and befriended everybody, which was the best of all. On the ground of having been once poor herself, her sympathy for all who were poor went the length of absurdity, Mrs. Hunstanton thought. And even Mrs. Norton remonstrated gently. “We have no right to say so, but you must not be too good, Diana,” she said. Diana was a puzzle to the people who were so familiar with her, who felt authorised to find fault with her, to lecture her, to point out a great many better ways of doing everything. Sophy, indeed, took upon herself to allow that perhaps dear Diana was a little eccentric. “But then she is so good! we all love her so!” cried the little girl, with a certain indulgence and patronage.

Diana was aware of all this, more or less. She knew that they were conscious of a mild superiority, even while they took everything, and a degree of importance above all, from her. But she only smiled; they meant no harm. It was nature. They could not bring out any more than was in them: they were good, if they were not wise. They meant no harm. And if her own little world was more puzzled than respectful, the outer world had a great respect for Diana. She was so rich! What a thing that is! And if it makes the homeliest persons interesting, how much more must it do for those who are not homely, who are interesting by gift of nature? Miss Trelawny was on everybody’s lips—all the more, perhaps, that she did not drive about constantly, as her companions wished, and show herself in everybody’s eyes.

Thus the first week or two passed; and insensibly the little receptions of the Hunstantons began to take place downstairs on Diana’s floor. The rooms were so much handsomer; and what did it matter which of them it was that gave the simple refreshments required? Thus it was settled, though not without a little feeling on Mrs. Hunstanton’s part that she too was making use of Diana, as she objected to all the other people for doing. But then it was good for Diana to see people. Somehow the rustle and murmur of the little society acquired dignity in the loftier and more splendid rooms of the piano nobile, where the little coterie of the English Church party—the people who had choir-practice every week in Mrs. Winthrop’s rooms, and who flattered themselves that their “simple beautiful service” must be a revelation to any belated Italian who stumbled across the threshold of their chapel—could rub shoulders with worldly-minded travellers and with Italians pur sang, without either coterie coming in the way of the other. For Sophy’s sake, there had even been a dance one evening in one of those fine rooms. Everything had widened and grown larger since Diana came. She neither danced nor did she join in the choir-practice; but all kinds of people came and bowed before her as she sat opposite the Vandyke.

One of those who ventured least to occupy her attention was Pandolfini, though he came with the rest, and never missed an occasion. Diana had noticed him a great deal on his first introduction to her. She had, indeed, almost watched him; and he had been vaguely aware of the scrutiny, although quite at a loss to know why it was; but after a few days he had been conscious that it relaxed, and that Diana watched him no more. Had she heard something of him that interested her? He had done things in his day that might have interested a woman. He had conspired, as everybody had done in his time in Italy, and had fought for his country, and had got the usual reward of the disinterested. What did it matter? The country had been saved, and what was an individual in comparison? But the idea that this beautiful noble Englishwoman, the first sight of whom had so deeply touched his own imagination, should have heard of him, and should think him worthy of observation, went to Pandolfini’s heart. Once more he felt the tears come into his eyes, and was ashamed and grieved at himself secretly, as a demonstrative Italian, how unlikely to please her in her national reticence! But yet she noticed him, kept an eye upon him when nobody observed but himself—alas! and in a few days gave it over, and noticed him, except as she noticed everybody, no more. Had Pandolfini known that this was merely for Sophy’s sake, the little English mees of whom he had never thought twice, who was to him only a pretty child, a little nobody! It is well in this life that our knowledge of what other people think of us is happily so circumscribed.

But he did not know this, and as his secret pleasure had been great in seeing her attention turned towards him, so was it bitter to him now to find it withdrawn. She had heard good of him, which had interested her; and then she had heard something less good. This must be how it was. The consequence was, that he had kept studiously away from Diana—at first in hope, thinking that she might perhaps turn to him, call him, make him feel that her interest in him was more than the common; and then, in fear and discouragement, searching the depths of his recollection to see what thing he could have done by which he could have been discredited in her eyes. This thought was appalling to him. Had he ever looked like a coward or a traitor? had he done anything of doubtful aspect, which could be told against him? or was some traitor at work behind-backs defaming him? He had made himself so sure at first that there was something which had specially attracted her attention to himself. And so there was, poor Pandolfini! But Diana had very soon found out that he was as innocent as a child of any thoughts of Sophy; and that the frank admiration and confidence of that little simpleton had not even affected his vanity. He was perfectly innocent and unaware of it. She was almost glad to make the discovery, though she could scarcely have told why; but it changed her interest in the grave Italian with his blue eyes. Why should she think more of him? Sophy was to be discouraged evidently in her too great appreciation of his kindness, and unless Diana kept him outside of her circle of acquaintance, it would be difficult to do this. So thus it happened that the intercourse between them was checked, and that he knew less of Diana than the newest and least notable member of the little society.

On one special evening, towards the middle of April, it happened at once that this distance became the object of remark, and that it ceased to exist, almost at the same moment. Diana, in her usual seat opposite the great picture, had been left alone for the moment by the ebbing of the little crowd, most of her guests having strayed towards the next room, in which music was going on. Stranded in the same way, and quite alone, stood Pandolfini. He was in front of the portrait, holding up a book to the light, which fell full upon his face: and it was a remarkable face—no longer with the beauty of youth, but with that beauty of expression which comes with years. His dark hair, cut short À l’anglais, showed touches of white at the temples; his face was long, the oval but slightly sunken of the cheeks, the forehead white in comparison with the rest—and the eyes blue. Blue eyes in an Italian face are not like blue eyes anywhere else. There is a pathos and sweetness in the very colour, something of simplicity, poetry, almost childhood in the midst of the dark fervour and force of the rest. Mr. and Mrs. Hunstanton, standing together, as it happened, near the door which led into the music-room, remarked, at the same moment, these two left almost altogether alone.

“Can’t they find anything to say to each other, I wonder?” said Mrs. Hunstanton, almost under her breath.

“I thought these two would have been friends,” said her husband. “Why shouldn’t they be friends? they ought to have taken to each other. Somebody must have prejudiced her against him. I have told her half-a-dozen times what a nice fellow he was; but she has never taken any notice. I am surprised at Diana—to take up such a prejudice——”

“Why do you suppose she has a prejudice?” Mrs. Hunstanton thought she knew why Diana did not care for their Italian friend.

“We must bring them together. I am determined to bring them together. Here is the very opportunity, and I’ll do it at once. Music! what do I care for the music? Music is the greatest interruption—but only one must not say so—— Look here, Di——”

“Tom, for heaven’s sake let them alone! They are beginning to talk of their own accord. Don’t meddle, I tell you!” cried his wife, grasping him by the arm, and giving him an impatient shake. Mr. Hunstanton was obedient for once in his life, and stopped when he was told.

“Well, I am glad they are taking a little notice of each other,” he said; “not that they will ever get any further. A nice soft little creature like Sophy is the right person for such a fellow as Pandolfini.”

“I think you are all out of your senses about Sophy,” said Mrs. Hunstanton, indignant.

“Well, well, let us see what is going on,” said he, with all his usual energy, “in the next room.”

While this colloquy was going on, Diana, raising her eyes by chance, had been suddenly caught by a resemblance, real or imaginary, between the portrait opposite to her and the man who stood immediately beneath. Having been once aroused, she looked again at Pandolfini, in whom she had taken a passing interest as the possible lover of Sophy, but whom she had ceased to notice for some time back. And he felt her eyes upon him, felt that she was at last looking at him fairly, her interest awakened—and his heart began to beat. He felt, too, that they were alone, though the others were so near. It was the first time they had really been brought face to face.

“Mr. Pandolfini,” said Diana, at last, “I wonder if it is only a trick of the light or of my eyes, but I seem to see a resemblance between you and the Vandyke. Has it never been noticed before?”

He turned to her instantly, with a smile which lighted up his face like a sunbeam—a sudden, sweet, ingratiating, Italian smile—trying hard to keep the tremulous eagerness of response down, and look as calm as she did. “I do not remember,” he said, in his slow and elaborate English; “but it would not be wonderful. My mother was dei Sogni—of the house of the Dreams,” he repeated, with some humour in his smile.

Diana was dazzled by the look he gave her. It is the only word to use. It was not the ordinary smile, but a lighting up of the whole man, face and soul. “Indeed!” she said, ashamed of the commonplace word. “Then I may believe I am right. I did not know there was any relationship, so it was clever on my part. But if you belong to the race, Mr. Pandolfini, what poor intruders you must feel us all to be! Invaders, Goths, Forestieri—that means something like barbarians, does it not?”

“Perhaps—in the ancient days,” he said; “but now it has another signification. What was that anecdote which finds itself in all your histories?—Anglorum, Angelorum.”

“Ah, we are but a poor kind of angels nowadays,” said Diana; “black often, not white, I fear; and when we rush over your beautiful places, and crowd your palaces—like this—you must be forbearing indeed, to think well of us. I feel myself an interloper when I look at your ancestor: he is the master of the house, not I.”

“That is—pardon me,” said the Italian, “because the Signora Diana is of the house of the dreams too.”

Diana looked up at him surprised. She was half offended too, with the idea of a certain presumption in the stranger who ventured to use her Christian name on such short acquaintance. But Pandolfini’s anxious respectfulness was not to be doubted, and she remembered in time that it was the Italian custom. Besides, Diana was but human, and to be addressed in this tone of reverential devotion touched her somewhat. “You mean of the house of the dreamers, I suppose. I have nothing to say against it. I suppose it is true.”

Then there was a momentary pause. Pandolfini, like other men, was absorbed and struck dumb, when the moment he had looked forward to, the moment when he could speak to her and recommend himself, really came. His mind was full of a hundred things, and yet he could not think of one to say.

“You have been pleased—with our Pisa,” he said at last, with a sense, which made him hate himself, of the utter imbecility of the words.

“What shall I say?” Diana looked up at him with a smile. “I don’t know. Something has happened to me; but I am not sure if you will understand my loss. Italy was a wonder and a mystery when I came here: and now it is a place to live in, just like another. Do you understand? I know, of course, it is nonsense.”

“It is not non-sense—it is true-sense,” said the Italian; and the blue in his eyes moistened. “I do know what you would say.”

“Yes; everything that was impossible seemed as if it might be here. It was Italy, you know,” said Diana, growing rapid and colloquial. “And now, yes, it is Italy—a place more beautiful than any other, but just a place like any other. It is very absurd, but I am disappointed. You must think me very foolish, I am sure.”

“I think,” said Pandolfini—and then he paused. “It is that I know the meaning of it. Did not I say the Signora Diana was dei Sogni too?”