d it was the one
thing which made him sometimes wish that he had taken the chisel for his
tool, instead of the brush.

She was never considered one of the great beauties of Rome. She had not
the magnificent presence and colouring of her kinswoman, Maria
Addolorata, whose tragic death in the convent of Subiaco--a fictitious
tragedy accepted as real by all Roman society--had given her a special
place in the history of the Braccio family. She had not the dark and
queenly splendour of Corona d'Astradente, her contemporary and the most
beautiful woman of her time. But she had, for those who loved her,
something which was quite her own and which placed her beyond them in
some ways and, in any case, out of competition for the homage received
by the great beauties. No one recognized this more fully than Angelo
Reanda, and he would as soon have thought of being in love with her, as
men love women, as he would have imagined that his father, for instance,
could have loved Maria Addolorata, the Carmelite nun.

The one human point in his devoted adoration lay in his terror lest
Francesca Campodonico should die young and leave him to grow old without
her. He sometimes told her so.

"You should marry," she answered one day, when they were together in the
great hall which he was decorating.

She was still dressed in black, and as she spoke, he turned and saw the
outline of her small pure face against the high back of the old chair in
which she was sitting. It was so white just then that he fancied he saw
in it that fatal look which belonged to some of the Braccio family, and
which was always spoken of as having been one of Maria Addolorata's
chief characteristics. He looked at her long and sadly, leaning against
an upright of his scaffolding as he stood on the floor near her, holding
his brushes in his hand.

"I do not think I shall ever marry," he answered at last, looking down
and idly mixing two colours on his palette.

"Why not?" she asked quickly. "I have heard you say that you might, some
day."

"Some day, some day--and then, all at once, the 'some day' is past, and
is not any more in the future. Why should I marry? I am well enough as I
am; there would only be unhappiness."

"Do you think that every one who marries must be unhappy?" she asked.
"You are cynical. I did not know it."

"No. I am not cynical. I say it only of myself. There are many reasons.
I could not marry such a woman as I should wish to have for my wif