tual events of his life were in themselves sufficiently
adventurous to display it less prominently; but he ever delighted in
these stage effects which strike by situation or a picturesque costume.
Gerald inherited this trait, and experienced intense delight in its
exercise. He fancied his Eminence the Cardinal, balancing between fear
and anger, sending out emissaries on every side, asking counsels here,
rejecting suggestions there, while Guglia, too haughty to confess
astonishment, would be lost in conjecturing what had become of him.

If it should be wondered at that Gerald felt no more tender sentiment
toward the lovely Countess with whom he had been closely domesticated,
and who enjoyed so fully all the confidence of his fortunes, let us own
frankly that it was not his fault; he did his very best to be in love
with her, and for that very reason, perhaps, he failed! Not all the
desire in the world will enable a man to catch a contagious malady, nor
all his precautions suffice to escape it; so is it with love. Gerald saw
in her one who would have adorned the highest station: she was eminently
beautiful, and with a grace that was a fascination; she possessed to
perfection those arts which charm in society, and had that blending of
readiness in repartee with a sort of southern languor that makes a rare
element of captivation; and yet with all this he did not fall in love.
And the reason was this: Guglia had none of those sudden caprices, those
moods of exorbitant hope or dark despondency, those violent alternations
of temperament which suggest quick resolve, or quicker action. She
was calm--too calm; reflective--too reflective--and, as _he_ thought,
infinitely too much occupied in preparing for eventualities either to
enjoy the present or boldly to dare the future.

These traits of hers, too, wounded his self-love; they made him feel
inferior to her; and he smarted under counsels and advice which came
with the authority of dictations. A casual wound to his pride also aided
this impression; it was an accidental word he had once overheard, as
she was walking one evening with the Cardinal in an alley of the garden
adjoining one in which he was standing. They had been discussing his
fortunes and his character; and she remarked, with a certain bitterness
in her tone, as if contradicting some hopeful anticipation of her uncle.
'_Non, caro zio non, E piu capace de farsi Prete_.' 'No, my dear uncle:
more likely is he to turn pri