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Updated: June 12, 2025
Gloria understood, and said bitter things about society when she was alone, and by degrees she began to say them to her husband. "These Romans!" she exclaimed at last. "They believe that there is nobody like themselves!" Angelo Reanda's face had a pained look, as he laid his long thin hand upon hers. "My dear," he said gently. "You have married an artist. What would you have?
Reanda was therefore under an obligation to the journalist, and Gloria herself was grateful. Moreover, Englishmen who came to Rome had frequently been to see Reanda's work in consequence of the articles. One old gentleman had tried to induce the artist to paint a picture for him, but had met with a refusal, on the ground that the work at the Palazzetto Borgia would occupy at least another year.
"Is this the sixth or the seventh?" asked Dalrymple, slowly. "Eight with Signor Reanda's," answered the man. "But Signor Reanda paid for his as he went out. You have therefore seven. It might be enough." Giulio smiled. "Bring seven more, Giulio," said the Scotchman, gravely. "It will save you six journeys."
The three men all carried tapers, as was then customary, and they all lit them before they ascended the dark staircase. "This is an illumination," said Dalrymple, looking back as he led the way. Gloria stopped suddenly, and looked round. She was following her father, and Reanda came after her, Griggs being the last. "One, two, three," she counted, and her eyes met Reanda's.
But I think there are certain things that belonged to the Englishman." "The Englishman?" asked Gloria, with some curiosity. She was glad of anything which could interest her a little. For the moment she had not yet the courage to begin to write again after Reanda's message. Anything which had power to turn the current of her thoughts was a relief.
Griggs came forward, and looked into his face as they met. There was the same gentle and happy light in Reanda's eyes which had been there when he was sitting with Gloria in the corner of the Spanish artist's drawing-room. Then Griggs understood and knew the truth, and guessed the meaning of the unaccustomed pressure of the hand as Reanda greeted him without speaking, and hurriedly went out.
Then Griggs took his leave without mentioning Reanda or Gloria again. But Francesca was aware that she had betrayed Reanda's unhappiness to a man who had admired Gloria, and had probably loved her before her marriage. She afterwards blamed herself bitterly and very unjustly for what she had done. Griggs went away, and called soon afterwards at the small house in the Macel de' Corvi.
In his own eyes, with his beliefs, he had not even sinned in taking what he had loved so well. But all the sorrow he saw, came from that deed. Francesca Campodonico's eyes were as clear and true as her heart. But he knew that Reanda's life was everything on earth to her, and he guessed that she was to lose that, too, before long.
There is a little difference in the colouring, I think, and much in the expression. But the rest it is the image!" Francesca, who could not remember her ill-fated kinswoman, was not much impressed by Reanda's statement. "It makes your caricature all the worse," she answered, "since it was also a caricature of that holy woman. As for the resemblance, after all these years, it is a mere impression.
There was a dewy delicacy on her young lips, as though they could kiss nothing more earthly than a newly opened flower, already above the earth, but not yet touched by the sun. There was a thoughtful turn of modelling in the smooth, white forehead, which it was utterly beyond Reanda's art to reproduce, often as he had tried.
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