long interval of unconscious development as
a finished picture, a complex thought. The same law governs all the
varying activities of our being; and the activities of which we are
conscious form but a small part of the whole.

Donna Bianca Dolcebuono was the ideal type of Florentine beauty, such as
Ghirlandajo has given us in the portrait of Giovanna Tornabuoni at Santa
Maria Novella. Her face was fair and oval, with a broad white brow, a
sweet and expressive mouth, a nose a trifle _retrousse_ and eyes of that
deep hazel so dear to Firenzuola. She was fond of wearing her hair
parted and arranged in full puffs half way over her cheeks in the quaint
old style. Her name suited her admirably for into the artificial life of
fashionable society she brought a great natural sweetness of temper,
much indulgence for the failings of others, courtesy accorded
impartially to high and low, and a most melodious voice.

On hearing Andrea's hackneyed phrases, she exclaimed in graceful
surprise--

'What, have you forgotten Elena so soon?'

Then after a few days of engaging hesitation, it pleased her to yield to
his solicitations, and she often spoke of Elena to the faithless young
lover, but with perfect frankness and without jealousy.

'But why did she go away sooner than usual this year?' she asked him one
day with a smile.

'I have no idea,' answered Andrea, not without a touch of impatience and
bitterness.

'Then it is all over between you--quite over?'

'For pity's sake, Bianca, let us talk about ourselves,' he retorted
sharply. The subject disturbed and irritated him.

She remained pensive for a moment, as if seeking to unravel some enigma,
then she smiled and shook her head with a little fugitive shadow of
melancholy in her eyes.

'Such is love!' she sighed, and returned Andrea's kisses.

In her he seemed to possess all those charming women of whom Lorenzo the
Magnificent sang:

'And on every side we find,
Absence, as men say, estranges,
Fancy ranges as the eye ranges,
Out of sight is out of mind.

Love departs and is not love:
As from sight the eye departs
Even so do hearts from hearts;
And at other hands we prove
Fancies love as the eyes rove,
Parted pleasures come again.'

When the summer came, and she was on the point of leaving Rome, she
said to him, without seeking to conceal her gentle emotion--

'When we meet again I know you will not love me any more. That is