Diana seated herself in her favourite place, in a great chair covered with dark old velvet, which had got a bloom on it by dint of age, such as youth sometimes has, like the duvet of a purple plum. Her own dress was made in toned white, creamy and soft, not the brilliant white of snow, and of rich silk, which fell in heavy splendid folds. But it was “old-fashioned” in its cut, which Sophy had deeply deplored already, with a plain long skirt, “such as was worn three years ago!” the girl had cried with vexation. A certain weariness was about Diana as she laid her head back on the velvet, weariness yet satisfaction in having settled all her people comfortably in the way of amusing themselves, and being thus herself left free. Mr. Hunstanton was talking with Colonel Winthrop, who was the husband of the musical lady, and two other persons who did not care for music. Mrs. Norton, who was not musical, except in the way of playing waltzes (of which she knew three) and one old set of quadrilles, had taken pity upon Reginald, and had gone to the side-table with him to play piquet, which was more amusing than patience. Diana looked round her with a sigh of comfort, feeling that all her guests were off her hands. The central group at the piano was the brightest point. Mrs. Winthrop, who was a pretty young woman, and acted as conductor, held the chief place, holding a pink forefinger in the air instead of a baton, swaying her head, and tapping her foot according to the measure. Around her were her troupe with their music, among whom, most evident to Diana, was Mrs. Hunstanton, “putting in a second,” as she had been adjured to do—and anxious to escape, Sophy singing soprano, with the half-tearful, half-sullen look gradually melting from her face under the charms of the madrigal; and over Sophy’s head, holding his book high, the poor curate, who had been forced into it, and who, with his mouth open, and his eyes wandering, added a powerful but uncertain bass. The soft lights of the candles on the walls lighted them all up, shining upon the lightness of their faces, and the dresses of the ladies, as they stood grouped about the piano. Behind, Mr. Hunstanton’s darkly attired group of men gave an agreeable balance to the picture.

In front of Diana there were but three figures. Mrs. Norton and Reginald, with a table between them, covered with the glories of the coloured cards, which were repeated in the rose-coloured ribbons of her cap; and standing quite alone in front of the dim profundity of a great old mirror—Pandolfini. He was the only one who was alone as she was, though not by design, like Diana. The glass was so old and so dim that it almost shrouded him, giving its background of mysterious reflection to make even his solid figure look unreal. But one thing about him was very real, which was that his eyes were fixed upon herself. It was an inadvertent moment, and Mr. Hunstanton’s sudden announcement of approaching departure had brought a certain agitation into the atmosphere. To Diana, who had taken root in the friendly place, notwithstanding her consciousness that her stay could not be long, the feeling was painful—but to Pandolfini it was like the crush of overthrow. He had known it, he said to himself—of course he had known it—but it had not appeared such an utter and miserable conclusion of all hopes, and revolution in life. The room had contracted round him, and the lights grown dim, just as he felt the firmament itself would contract, and the sun grow dim to him, when she was gone—and he had forgotten himself. He had not been able to talk, to join in what everybody was doing, so long as this feeling that the earth had opened under his feet, ready to swallow him up and all things, was foremost in his mind. He had had his full of revolutions: he knew what they were, and how men could live through them, and the vulgar placidity of every day overcome all the violence that could be done in life. But here was a revolution which could not be got over. Yes, yes, he said to himself drearily, as, under cover of the music and the movement, he put himself thus behind-backs, and allowed his eyes to rest upon Diana with a half-despairing intentness. Si! si! it could be got over. If a man is hacked limb by limb he has to bear it, making no unseemly outcries; but still the thought of what it would be, the going out of all sweet lights and hopes, the settling down of darkness, the horror of something taken away which could never be replaced, appalled his very soul. What an irony it was, what a cruelty of fate! He had been well enough before, contenting himself with his existence, thinking of no Diana, satisfied with the life which had never known her. But now!—without knowing, Pandolfini gazed at her out of the shadows with eyes that glowed and burned, and with a longing and fixedness very startling to her pensive calm, as suddenly she turned to him with a half-smile and met his look!

Diana drew a little back in her chair, swerved for a moment, so startled that she did not know what to do or think. She felt a blush rising over her—why she could not tell: a sort of self-consciousness seized upon her, consciousness of herself as being gazed at, rather than of him who was gazing. Why should he or any one look at her so? Then she recovered, with a slight shake of her head to throw off the impression, and a confused laugh at her own vanity (as she called it): and seeing nothing better to do, beckoned to him to come to her. Pandolfini was not less confused than she. His first thought was that he had betrayed himself, and that nothing was to be done now but to face his fate with melancholy boldness, which becomes the unfortunate. He had made up his mind before now in moments of peril to sell his life dearly. If this unconscious queenly lady was to have his life like a flower, at least she should be aware of what it was which was thrown on her path for her delicate foot to tread on. A kind of tender fury came into his mind. He went up to her slowly, almost solemnly, as a man might be supposed to go to his death—not affecting to be indifferent to it, but ready for whatever might befall.

Diana had called him: but she was confused, not knowing how she was to speak to this man, who looked at her not as acquaintances look. In her embarrassment she found nothing but the most banal of nothings to say.

“I cannot suppose you are not fond of music, Mr. Pandolfini.”

“Should I unite myself to the gentlemen, then? But neither does Miss Trelawny—it is not that one does not love music.”

“I cannot answer for myself,” said Diana, gladly plunging into an abstract subject. “I am fanciful—I think I like music only when it goes to my heart.”

“What a pretty idiom is that!” said Pandolfini. “One loves everything most when it touches there.” He had placed himself just a step behind her, enough to make it difficult for her to see him, while he could see her perfectly. It was an unfair advantage to take. “But music,” he added, “it has other aims—the ear first, and the mind and the imagination.”

“There is my deficiency,” said Diana. “I only understand it in this way. Other arts may instruct, or may inspire; but if music does not touch me, move my feelings, I do not make anything of it. I do not understand it. This is my deficiency.”

“I acknowledge no deficiency,” said the Italian in a low tone. The excitement in his blood was subsiding a little, but still he wanted some perfume to reach her from the myrtle-bow crushed on her path. And the tone was one which answered her musical requirements, and went right to her heart. Where had she heard that tone before? It was not the first time in her life, as may be supposed; but it seemed a long time since, and the thrill of recognition was also a thrill of alarm.

“We will not quarrel on this point,” she said, “especially as the present performance is not one to call forth much feeling; but it makes people happy, which is always something.”

“Happy?” said Pandolfini; “is it this then which in your English calls itself happiness? Ah! pardon—the Italian is more rich. This is (perhaps) to be amused—to be diverted—but happy—no. We keep that name for better things. I, for instance,” he added once more, in so low a voice that she had to stoop forward to hear him, “I might say so much—and, alas! it is for a moment, for a breath, no more. But they, these gentlemen and ladies—they divert themselves: the difference is great.”

“You must say ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Pandolfini,” said Diana, glad to be able to escape from too grave an argument; “in English it is more courteous to put us first.”

“Pardon,” he said, with the flush of ready shame, which every one feels who has made a slip in a new language. “I thought it was used so. But in all languages heaven goes before the earth. I ought to have known.”

Diana laughed, but he did not laugh. He was not without humour; but at present he was in deadly earnest, incapable of seeing the lighter side. “At all events, that is pure Italian,” she said. “Your compliments are delightful, Mr. Pandolfini—so general that one ventures to accept them on account of all the other women in the world. I wish one could believe it,” she added, shaking her head.

“I do believe it,” he said once more, in his deepest tone.

“Ah! you speak too low: I cannot hear you—which is an English not an Italian fault. But you are right to discriminate between happiness and amusement. We do so too, but we are not sufficiently particular about our words, and use the first that comes to hand.”

Then there was a pause, and this time it was he who began. “Is it true,” he said, “that this is soon to come to an end?—that you are going away?”

“I suppose we must go, sooner or later. Not perhaps with the Hunstantons; but people do not stay here for summer, do they? It is for winter one comes here?”

“I am no judge,” he said gravely, with that seriousness, on the verge of offence with which a man hears his own country criticised. “I have spent many summers here. You shut yourself up behind the persianis all day; but when evening comes—ah, Miss Trelawny! the night of summer that goes to the heart, as you say. I have never been in your country. I cannot tell if among the seas you can know. Ah, you smile! I am wrong; I can believe it. England is no more sombre when you—such as you—live there; but in Italy I would give—how much—a year! years—of my life that you might see one summer night. The air it is balm; so soft, so warm, so cool, so dark. The moon more lustrous than any day. And all the people out of doors. You who love the people it would make you glad. Upon the stairs and in the doorways, everywhere, all friendly, smiling, singing, feeling the air blow in their faces. How it has made me happy!—But now,—now——”

“You ought to be more happy than ever, Mr. Pandolfini,” said Diana, raising herself erect in her chair, turning round upon him with the courage the situation demanded, yet unable to keep a tremor of sympathy out of her voice, “now that your country has risen up again, and takes her place once more among the best.”

“I thank you for saying so—yes, I should be more happy; but, ecco, Miss Trelawny, we are not as we would. I have my senses, is it not true? I am not a child to stretch out my hands for what is beyond reach? Yet also, alas! I am that fool,—I am that child. My country?—I forget what I meant to say.”

“You are not well,” said Diana, troubled. “It is this hideous din. Oh no, I meant this beautiful music. You will be better when it is over.”

“Nay,” he said, the moisture coming into his eyes. “I like it; it makes a solitude. It might be that there was no one else in the world.”

All this was nothing. If Mr. Hunstanton had heard it, he would have said that Pandolfini was in one of his queer moods, and would have divined nothing of what lay below; but to most women this inference of adoration is more seductive than the most violent protestations. Even Diana felt herself yield a little to the charm. She had to make an effort to resist and escape from this fascination.

“And happily, here we are at the end,” she said. “Listen—here comes the last burst.”

“Will you tell me?” said poor Pandolfini, paying no attention to the interruption; “it will be very kind. Will you tell me to my own self, À me stesso, before you go away?”

“It will be your turn to pay us a visit in England,” she said, rising; and she turned and looked at him with a smile which was very sweet and friendly, though so calm. “Then I will show you my country as you have shown me yours,” she added. How kind she was! almost affectionate, confiding; looking at him as if he had been an old friend—she who had known him a few weeks only. But, alas! the moon in the sky was not more serene than Diana. She went forward to the singers, adding in the same breath, “Is it over so soon? You have given us a very pleasant half-hour” (was it by their singing?). “Won’t you take something, and begin again?”

“Tea is the worst thing for the voice,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “though I am dying for a cup of tea. No more to-night, dear Miss Trelawny. I am sure we have bored you quite enough: though it is amusing to those who sing, I am always sorry for the audience. We must not try you any more.”

“I have liked it,” said Diana; and he thought she gave a humorous half-glance towards himself, as if to indicate how it was that she had liked it. As for Pandolfini, he could not bear the contact of the gay little crowd. He went into one of the deep windows, and after a moment stole out into the balcony outside. He was not calm. If Diana had liked this brief retirement from her little world and its busy affairs only to plunge into them again—to pour out tea for Mrs. Winthrop, and condole with the tenor on the cold which affected his voice—the Italian was not so philosophical. His frame quivered with all that he had said and all that he had not said. Had he betrayed himself? In every other kind of sentiment two people are on easier ground; but in love, except when they understand each other completely, how are they ever to understand each other? A woman cannot be kind without being more than kind, or a man make himself intelligible without those last explanations which one way or another are final—knitting the two together, or cutting them adrift for ever. Alas! there seemed no likelihood with that calm Diana of any knitting together: and he would not be cut adrift. No: he would take her at her word. He would be patient—nay, passive, tenacious—as the English like a man to be. He would be silent, resisting all temptation to speak even as he had spoken to-night. He would give up the ways of his own race and take to hers, concealing every sentiment; he would be reticent, self-controlled, everything that an Italian is not by nature. He would take the benefit of every moment here, and enjoy her society as if he did not love her. Yes; that is what he would do—take the good of her, as if she were nothing to him but an acquaintance, and never risk that subdued happiness by any revelation of deeper feeling. And then when all was had that could be had here, he would do as she had said—he would go to England, and there be happy, or at least a little happy, again. And who could tell? If he could manage to be so wise as this, so self-controlled, so English, who could tell what might happen? She might be in some great danger from which he could rescue her; she might fall into some great strait or misfortune in which he might be of use. He did not, perhaps, immediately realise the drowning, or the fire, or the runaway horses which might form the extremity which would be his opportunity, as a youth might have done; but when a man is under the dominion of one of the primitive emotions, does not that reverse the distinctions of youth and age?

It was the most youthful foolish notion, transparent as gossamer, which thus sprang up within him, and which he cherished with such tenderness. He stood on the balcony with his back turned to the world outside: the soft infinite sky of a spring night, the dewy sense of moisture in the air, the gleam of the Arno between its banks below, and the voices of the passers-by, in which there was generally a dreamy attraction for him—all this was of less importance to Pandolfini to-night than the lighted interior, with those groups of careless forestieri laughing and carrying on their chatter under that solemn cavalier of the Sogni, his own ancestor, who looked on so gravely, seeing the Northern hordes come and go. A momentary contempt and almost hatred for them seized Pandolfini, though he was an Anglomane. What did they want here with their curiosity and their levity?

“Le case di Italia son fatte per noi,” he said to himself; then laughed at himself for the doggerel, and so brought his mind down as well as he could from these thoughts to the common platitudes, to Mr. Hunstanton, who appealed to him about a discussion which had taken place in the Italian parliament, and to Colonel Winthrop, who claimed his opinion as an impartial person as to the relative intelligence of the English and Americans. He stepped in from the balcony with a smile on his face, and gave them his reply. His heart was thrilling and quivering with the effort, but he made no sign. Was not this the first symptom that he had conquered himself, that he was as strong as an Englishman, and had surmounted that impatience of suffering, that desire for demonstration which is in the Italian blood? Would she think so? or had she divined what he meant, or ever thought enough about him to wonder? This was the most exciting question of all.