t is, since I
last saw him."

"Stay here--please stay in the house!" said Veronica. "He may need you."

While she was speaking she had gone to the door, and she went out
without looking back. A moment later, she was by Gianluca's side. She
saw that what Don Teodoro had said was true. There was an undefinable
change in his features since the previous day, and at the first sight of
it her heart stood still an instant and the blood left her face, so that
she felt very cold. She kept her back to the light, that he might not
see that she was disturbed, and while she asked him how he was, her
hands touched, and displaced, and replaced the little objects on the
small table beside him,--the book, the glass, the flowers in the silver
cup, the silver cigarette case, the things which, being quite helpless,
he liked to have within his reach.

"I really feel better to-day," he said, watching her lovingly, as he
answered her question. "I wish I could go out."

"You can be carried out upon the balcony in a little while," she said.
"It is too cool, yet. It was a cold night, for we are getting near the
end of August."

"And in Naples they are sweltering in the heat," he answered, smiling.
"It is beautiful here. I can see the mountains through the open window,
and the flowers tell me what the hillsides are like, in the sunshine.
Taquisara says that your maid brings them every morning. Thank you--of
course it is one of your endless kind doings."

"No," replied Veronica, frankly. "It is her way of showing her devotion,
poor thing! Everybody loves you in the house--even the people who have
hardly ever seen you. The women, speak of you as 'that angel'!" She
tried to laugh cheerfully.

"I am glad they like me, though I have done nothing to be liked by them.
Please thank your maid for me. It is very kind of her."

There was a little disappointment in his voice; for he had been happy in
believing that Veronica sent the flowers herself, not because he needed
coin of kindness to prove her wealth of friendship, but because whatever
small thing came from her hand had so much more value for him than the
greatest and most that any one else could give.

She sat down beside him, and endeavoured to talk as though she were
quite unconcerned. She tried not to look at his face, upon which it
seemed to her that death was already fixing the last mask of life's
comedy. It was the more terrible, because he was so quiet and so sure of
life that morni