of the big fire dancing and crackling in Aurora's
chimney-place.

The upstairs sitting-room, where the ladies generally sat, might look
rather like a day nursery; yet after one had accepted it, with its
chintz of big red flowers and green foliage, its rich strawberry rug and
new gold picture-frames, it did seem to brighten one's mood. How think
grayly amid that dazzle and glow any more than feel cold before that
fire?

Leslie held her hands to the blaze, and with an amiable display of
interest inquired of their affairs, the progress made in "getting
settled." There was still a good deal to do of a minor sort.

Accounts were given her in a merry duet; purchases were shown; she was
told all that had happened since they last saw her, who had called, whom
they had been to see.

Casting about in her mind for further things to communicate, Aurora was
reminded of a small grievance.

"I thought your friend Mr. Fane was going to come and take us
sight-seeing," she said.

"Was it so arranged?"

"So I supposed."

"And he hasn't been?"

"Hide nor hair of him have we seen."

"I meant, hasn't he perhaps called while you were out?"

"He hasn't."

"Strange. It's not like him to be rude. But, then, he's not like himself
these days. You must excuse him."

"What's the matter with him? Isn't he well?"

"He's not ill in the usual sense. If he were, we should make him have a
doctor and hope to see him cured. It's worse than an illness. He is
blue--chronically blue."

"Why?"

"Oh, he has reasons. But the same reasons, of course, would not have
made a person of a different temperament change as he has changed."

"I don't suppose you want to tell us what the reasons are?" Very
tentatively this was said.

"Why ... ordinarily one would not feel free to do so, but you are sure
to hear about it before you have been here long. In Florence, you know,
everybody knows everything about everybody else. Not always the truth,
but in any case an interesting version. Oh, it behooves one to be
careful in Florence if one doesn't wish one's affairs known and talked
about. But in the case of Gerald there was nothing secret. Everybody
knows him, everybody knew when he was engaged to Violet Van Zandt,
everybody knows that she married some one else."

"Oh, the poor boy!"

"It's very simple, you see, commonplace as possible. But it's like the
old story of the poem: an old story, yet forever new. And the one to
whom it happens has his hea