inn servants were always about, so it was well to have a tongue
they did not comprehend. The lady was distracted and sad. When
I inquired feelingly as to the general condition of her father's
health she parried the question, and when I offered my services
she disregarded my words. It was in truth a doleful meal, while
the faded Cristine sat like a sphinx staring into vacancy. I
spoke of England and of her friends, of Paris and Versailles, of
Avignon where she had spent some years, and of the amenities of
Florence, which she considered her home. But it was like talking
to a nunnery door. I got nothing but "It is indeed true, sir,"
or "Do you say so, sir!" till my energy began to sink. Madame
perceived my discomfort, and, as she rose, murmured an apology.
"Pray forgive my distraction, but I am poor company when my
father is ill. I have a foolish mind, easily frightened. Nay,
nay!" she went on when I again offered help, "the illness is
trifling. It will pass off by to-morrow, or at the latest the
next day. Only I had looked forward to some ease at Santa
Chiara, and the promise is belied."

As it chanced that evening, returning to the inn, I passed by the
north side where the windows of the Count's room looked over a
little flower-garden abutting on the courtyard. The dusk was
falling, and a lamp had been lit which gave a glimpse into the
interior. The sick man was standing by the window, his figure
flung into relief by the lamplight. If he was sick, his sickness
was of a curious type. His face was ruddy, his eye wild, and,
his wig being off, his scanty hair stood up oddly round his head.
He seemed to be singing, but I could not catch the sound through
the shut casement. Another figure in the room, probably
Oliphant, laid a hand on the Count's shoulder, drew him from the