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Updated: June 11, 2025
Reanda could not be blamed for his brittle sensitivenesses, nor Gloria for a certain coarse-grained streak of cruelty, which she had inherited from her father, and which had combined strangely with the rare gifts and great faults of her dead mother the love of emotion for its own sake, and the tendency to do everything which might produce it in herself and those about her.
I may say that I am a great admirer of your work, and my daughter, too, for that matter." Reanda said something civil as his hand parted from the Scotchman's. Francesca saw an opportunity of bringing Reanda and Gloria together. "As you like Signor Reanda's painting so much," she said to Dalrymple, "will you not bring your daughter this afternoon to see the frescoes he is doing in my house?
For her beauty's sake, he could almost have deprecated the prospect, strange to say, for she had never seemed more perfectly beautiful than now. She was thinner than she had formerly been, and her pallor had refined her by softening the look of hard and brilliant vitality which had characterized her before she had left Reanda.
Reanda was struck by the cool moderation of the words, which expressed his own modest judgment of himself almost too exactly to be agreeable after Gloria's unlimited praise. He thanked Griggs warmly, however, and they shook hands before they parted. THREE months passed, and Reanda was intimate with the Dalrymples. It was natural enough, considering the circumstances.
They went to the bookseller's one day soon after the conversation which had led Francesca to mention the Dalrymples. As they walked along the east side of the great square, they saw two men before them. "There goes the Gladiator," said Reanda to his companion, suddenly. "There is no mistaking his walk, even at this distance." "What do you mean?" asked Francesca.
The lad had been taken out of his surroundings and thoroughly educated for the priesthood in Rome, but by the time he had attained to the age necessary for ordination, his artistic gifts had developed to such an extent that in spite of his father's disappointment, even the old Prince the brother of Sister Maria Addolorata advised Angelo Reanda to give up the Church, and to devote himself altogether to painting.
Little by little, also, Francesca fell into the habit of visiting Reanda in the great hall at hours when she was sure that Gloria would not be there. It was not that she disliked to see them together, but rather because she felt that Gloria was secretly antagonistic. There was a small, perpetual, unexpressed hostility in Gloria's manner which could not escape so sensitive a woman as Francesca.
Reanda began to understand that his wife was not happy, and the certainty reacted strongly upon him. He became more sad and abstracted from day to day, when he was not with her. He longed, as only a man of such a nature can long, for a friend in whom he could confide, and of whom he could ask advice.
She thought she had paradise in her arms. A husband! They all want it, the husband. But I, who had lived and seen, I should have known. Fool, fool! Ignorant fool!" The words came out vehemently in the strong dialect, and the nervous, heart-wrung man struck his breast with his clenched fist, and his eyes looked upward. "Reanda, Reanda! What are you saying? When I tell you that I made you marry her!
"Was I not right?" asked Gloria, quickly appealing to Reanda with the certainty of support. "A thousand times right," he answered. "How could one be wrong with such a voice?" Gloria was pleased, and they all walked on together till they reached the door of Dalrymple's lodging. "Come in and have supper with us," said the Scotchman, who seemed to be less gloomy than usual.
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