arranged here than in the outer apartments. There were books and
newspapers on the table, the fireplace was half-full of the ashes of a
burnt-out fire, there were faded flowers in a tall vase near the
window, there was the undefinable presence of life in the heavier and
warmer air. At first the Baroness had thought that the cry came from
some small animal, hurt and forgotten there in the great catastrophe;
a moment later she was sure that there was some one in the room.

She moved cautiously forward in the direction whence the sound had
come. Then she saw the edge of a fawn-coloured cloth skirt on the red
carpet by an armchair. She went on, hesitating no longer. She had seen
the frock only a day or two ago, and it belonged to Sabina Conti.

A very fair young girl was kneeling in the shadow, crouching over
something on the floor. Her hair was like the pale mist in the
morning, tinged with gold. She was very slight, and as she bent down,
her slender neck was dazzling white above the collar of her frock. She
was trembling a little.

"My dear Sabina, what has happened?" asked the Baroness Volterra,
leaning over her with an audible crack in the region of the waist.

At the words the girl turned up her pale face, without the least start
of surprise.

"It is dead," she said, in a very low voice.

The Baroness looked down, and saw a small bunch of yellow feathers
lying on the floor at the girl's knees; the poor little head with its
colourless beak lay quite still on the red carpet, turned upon one