h him?
Formerly he had always been visible about the house or garden; his
favorite place was on the lowest veranda step, where he loved to bask
in the heat of the sun. And now he was nowhere visible. I was mutely
indignant at his disappearance, but I kept strict watch over my
feelings, and remembered in time the part I had to play.

"Welcome to Villa Romani!" so said my wife. Then, remarking my silence
as I looked about me, she added with a pretty coaxing air,

"I am afraid after all you are sorry you have come to see me!"

I smiled. It served my purpose now to be as gallant and agreeable as I
could; therefore I answered:

"Sorry, madame! If I were, then should I be the most ungrateful of all
men! Was Dante sorry, think you, when he was permitted to behold
Paradise?"

She blushed; her eyes drooped softly under their long curling lashes.
Ferrari frowned impatiently--but was silent. She led the way into the
house--into the lofty cool drawing-room, whose wide windows opened out
to the garden. Here all was the same as ever with the exception of one
thing--a marble bust of myself as a boy had been removed. The grand
piano was open, the mandoline lay on a side-table, looking as though it
had been recently used; there were fresh flowers and ferns in all the
tall Venetian glass vases. I seated myself and remarked on the beauty
of the house and its surroundings.

"I remember it very well," I added, quietly.

"You remember it!" exclaimed Ferrari, quickly, as though surprised.

"Certainly. I omitted to tell you, my friend, that I used to visit this
spot often when a boy. The elder Conte Romani and myself played about
these grounds together. The scene is quite familiar to me."

Nina listened with an appearance of interest.

"Did you ever see my late husband?" she asked.

"Once," I answered her, gravely. "He was a mere child at the time, and,
as far as I could discern, a very promising one. His father seemed
greatly attached to him. I knew his mother also."

"Indeed," she exclaimed, settling herself on a low ottoman and fixing
her eyes upon me; "what was she like?"

I paused a moment before replying. Could I speak of that unstained
sacred life of wifehood and motherhood to this polluted though lovely
creature?

"She was a beautiful woman unconscious of her beauty," I answered at
last. "There, all is said. Her sole aim seemed to be to forget herself
in making others happy, and to surround her home with an atmosphere