ve been years away."

They went up the hill together. It was early yet, and the city was
veiled in fine mist through which the river gleamed here and there
with a sharpness of steel. The dome of St Peter's was still dark
against the greenish pallor of the morning sky.

"I am glad to be in Rome again. Venice is beautiful, but it does not
inspire me. It has no associations for me. What do I care for the
Doges, or for Titian's fat, golden-haired women with their sore
eyes--Caterina Cornaro and the rest. Rome is a crystal in which I seem
to see faces of dear women, women who lived and loved and saw the sun
set behind that rampart of low hills--Virginia, the Greek slave Acte,
Agnes, Cecilia, who sang as she lay dying in her house over there in
the Trasteverine quarter. Ah, I shall go away and have the nostalgia
of Rome to the end of my life." He paused to light another cigarette.
"Come and look at the picture. I have not dared to see it again myself
since I came back last night."

The door of his _atelier_ was open; he clattered up the steep wooden
stairs and she followed him. The canvas was set up on an easel facing
the great north light. Camille went up to it and then backed away.

"Well?"

He was smiling. "It is good," he said. "I shall work on it to-day and
to-morrow. Get ready now while I prepare my palette."

He looked at her critically as she took her place. The change in her
was indefinable, but he was aware of it. She seemed to be listening.

"Do you feel a draught from the door?" he asked presently.

"No, but I should like it shut."

"Nerves. You need a tonic and probably a change of air and scene.
There is nothing the matter?"

She shook her head. Camille was kind, but he could not help her. He
could not make the earth open and swallow Tor di Rocca, and sometimes
she felt that nothing less than that would satisfy her, and that such
a summary ending would contribute greatly to her peace of mind.

She had not seen the Prince for two days and she was beginning to
hope that he had gone away, but she was not yet able to feel free of
him. Rosina had come home with her every night from Varini's. Once he
had followed them, and twice he had come up the stairs and knocked at
the door. There had been hours when she had been safe from him, but
she had not known them, and the strain, the constant pricking fear of
him, was telling upon her. Every day youth and strength and hope
seemed to be slipping away and leavin