ay the part of sister to him; it
was for him to transform these sisters in something closer. He remarked
upon other resemblances between the two--That voice! How curiously like
Elena's were some tones in Donna Maria's voice! A mad thought flashed
through his brain. That voice might furnish him with the elements of a
study of imagination--by virtue of that affinity, he might resolve the
two fair women into one, and thus possess a third, imaginary, mistress,
more complex, more perfect, more _true_ because she would be ideal----

The third movement, executed in faultless style, finished in a burst of
applause. Andrea rose and approached Elena--

'Oh, there you are, Ugenta! Where have you been all this time?'
exclaimed the Princess--'In the "pays du Tendre?"'

'And your incognita?' asked Elena lightly as she pulled a bunch of
violets out of her muff and sniffed them.

'She is a great friend of my cousin Francesca's, Donna Maria Ferres y
Capdevila, the wife of the new minister for Guatemala,' Andrea replied
without turning a hair--'a beautiful creature and very cultivated--she
was at Schifanoja with Francesca last September.'

'And what of Francesca?' Elena broke in--'do you know when she is coming
back?'

'I had the latest news from her a day or two ago--from San Remo.
Fernandino is better, but I am afraid she will have to stay on there
another month at least, perhaps longer.'

'What a pity!'

The last movement, a very short one, began. Elena and the Princess
occupied two chairs at the end of the room, against the wall under a dim
mirror in which the melancholy hall was reflected. Elena listened with
bent head, slowly drawing through her fingers the long ends of her boa.

The concert over, she said to Sperelli: 'Will you see us to the
carriage?'

As she entered her carriage after the Princess, she turned to him
again--'Won't you come too? We will drop Eva at the Palazzo Fiano, and I
can put you down wherever you like.'

'Thanks,' answered Andrea, nothing loath. On the Corso they were obliged
to proceed very slowly, the whole roadway being taken up by a seething,
tumultuous crowd. From the Piazza di Montecitorio and the Piazza Colonna
came a perfect uproar that swelled and rose and fell and rose again,
mingled with shrill trumpet-blasts. The tumult increased as the gray
cold twilight deepened. Horror at the tragedy enacted in a far-off land
made the populace howl with rage; men broke through the dense crowd
run