bout the weather was a perfectly natural one in
Rome, where the southeast wind has an undoubted effect upon the human
temper.

But the seeds of much discussion were sown on that close spring
afternoon. Reanda was singularly tenacious of small purposes, as he was
of great ideas where his art was concerned, and his nature though gentle
was unforgiving, not out of hardness, but because he was so sensitive
that his illusions were easy to destroy.

He went out and forthwith began to search for an apartment of which his
wife should have no cause to complain. In the course of a week he found
what he wanted. It was a part of the second floor of one of the palaces
on the Corso, not far from the Piazza di Venezia. It was partially
furnished, and without speaking to Gloria he had it made comfortable
within a few days. When it was ready, he gave her short warning that
they were to move immediately.

Strange to say, Gloria was very much displeased, and did not conceal her
annoyance. She really liked the small house in the Macel de' Corvi, and
resented the way in which her husband had taken her remarks about the
situation. To tell the truth, Reanda had deceived himself with the idea
that she would be delighted at the change, and had spent money rather
lavishly, in the hope of giving her a pleasant surprise. He was
proportionately disappointed by her unexpected displeasure.

"What was the use of spending so much money?" she asked, with a
discontented face. "People will not come to see us because we live in a
fine house."

"I did not take the house with that intention, my dear," said Reanda,
gently, but wounded and repelled by the remark and the tone.

"Well then, we might have stayed where we were," she answered. "It was
much cheaper, and there was more sun for the winter."

"But this is gayer," objected Reanda. "You have the Corso under the
window."

"As though I looked out of the window!" exclaimed Gloria, scornfully.
"It was so nice--our little place there."

"You are hard to please, my dear," said the artist, coldly.

Then she saw that she had hurt him, which she had not meant to do. Her
own nature was self-conscious and greedy of emotion, but not sensitive.
She threw her arms round him, and kissed him and thanked him.

But Reanda was not satisfied. Day by day when Francesca looked at him,
she saw the harassed expression deepening in his face, and she felt that
every furrow was scored in her own heart. And she, in her