ver-changing
panorama of earth and sky; but it had lost its charm to him. The long,
cool vistas between the cloud-banks no more lifted the mind above
itself, pointing the way into a great and glorious future. A vague
dread was perpetually haunting him; he feared that Annunciata did not
love him as he wished to be loved; that she regretted, perhaps, having
bound herself to him and was not unwilling to break loose from him.
But what was life to him without Annunciata? He must bide his time,
and by daily kindness teach her to love him. That she was not happy
might have other causes, unknown to him. Her vehement self-accusations
and tearful protestations that she was not true to him might be merely
the manifestations of a morbidly sensitive conscience.

Vincent in the meanwhile had changed his attitude completely toward
the old masters. After his first meeting with Annunciata, his artistic
sense had been singularly quickened. He might be seen almost daily
wending his way, with a red-covered Baedeker under his arm, to the
gate of a certain villa, where he would breathe the musty air of the
deserted gallery for hours together, gaze abstractedly out of the
windows, and sometimes, when he was observed, even make a pretence of
sketching. Usually it was Monna Nina or Pietro who came to open the
gate for him on such occasions, but, at rare intervals, it happened
that Annunciata was sent to be his cicerone. She always met him with
fear and trembling, but so irresistible was the fascination which he
exerted over her, that he seemed to be able to change her mood at
will. When he greeted her with his lazy smile her heart gave a great
thump, and she laughed responsively, almost in spite of herself. If he
scowled, which he was sometimes pleased to do when Monna Nina or
Pietro had taken her place for several successive days, she looked
apprehensive and inquired about his health. The costly presents of
jewelry which he had given her, she hid guiltily in the most secret
drawer of her chest, and then sat up late into the night and rejoiced
and wept over them.

As for Vincent, it must be admitted that his own infatuation was no
less complete. He had a feeling as if some new force had entered his
life and filled it with a great, though dimly apprehended, meaning.
His thought had gained a sweep and a width of wing which were a
perpetual surprise to him. Not that he reasoned much about if he only
felt strong and young and mightily aroused. He