When I look back upon my life as it was in those days, I protest I am filled with a sort of envy. A boy of twenty-something, his pockets comfortably supplied with money; free from morning to night, from night to morning, to do as his fancy prompted; with numberless pleasant acquaintances; and in the most beautiful country, the most interesting city, of two hemispheres—in Italy, in Rome: yes, indeed, as I look back at him, I am filled with envy. But then, when I think of her.... I think of her, and she becomes visible before me, visible in all her exquisite grace and fineness, her exquisite femininity. I see her intimate little room, its gay blue and white, its pretty furniture, its hundred pretty personal trifles, tokens of her habitation; I breathe the air of it, the faint, soft perfume that was always on its air; I see her fan, her open book, her handkerchief forgotten on a table. I see her, in the room. I see her delicate white face, witty, alert, sensitive; I see her laughing eyes, her hair, the sumptuous masses of her hair. I see her hands, I touch them, slender, fragile, but warm, but firm and responsive. I see the delicious toilet she is wearing, I hear the brisk frou-frou of it. I hear her voice. I see her at her piano, I see her as she plays, the bend of her head, the motion of her body. I see her as she glances up at me, whimsically smiling, asking me something, telling me something. I gaze long at her, hungrily. And then, remembering that there was a time when I could see her like this in very reality as often as I would—oh, I can only cry out to myself of those days, “You lucky heathen, you lucky, lucky heathen! How little you realised, how little you merited, your extraordinary fortune!” Of course, I was in love with her. But as yet, upon my conscience, I did not know it. I knew that I was tremendously fond of her, that I was never so happy as when in her presence, that I was always more or less unsatisfied and restless when out of it. I knew that I was always more or less unsatisfied and restless, too, when other men were hovering about her, when she was laughing and talking with other men. I knew that I wished to be her knight, her servant, to dedicate my existence to her welfare. But beyond that, I had not analysed my sentiment, nor given it a name. And so, if you please, I was still able to go on prating to her of Elsie Milray! However, there came a day when I ceased to prate of Elsie... It was during the Carnival. Miss Belmont had taken a room in the Corso, from the balcony of which, that afternoon, she and various of her friends had watched the merrymaking. The Contessa Bracca was expected, but the hours wore away, and she did not turn up. I waited for her, hoped for her, from minute to minute, to the last. Then I went home in a fine state of depression. After dinner—and after much irresolution, ending in an abrupt resolve—I ventured to present myself at the Palazzo Stricci.