It was not, however, till several hours later that she wrote her note to Mr. Hunstanton. It was quite a model of what an acceptance should be: dignified, yet not too dignified; cordial, yet not too effusive. She appreciated Mr. Pandolfini, but she knew the value of the treasure she was giving. “I shall be happy to see him this evening or to-morrow,” she wrote. “They will be better able to understand each other when they meet by themselves; and I too shall be glad to have a talk with Mr. Pandolfini.” Mr. Hunstanton rubbed his hands as he put this epistle in his pocket-book. “I knew they would be delighted,” he said to himself, “and with good reason. Why he should have made such a fuss I don’t know; for, of course, it’s a capital match for Sophy. And she’ll make him a nice little wife, and give him a tidy, comfortable English home, which is a thing not very common in Italy. My wife, by the by, will be in a pretty way! She never could bear these two harmless little bodies. Why are women so queer? They never judge as we do. But here’s a settler for them all,” he said, chuckling and patting his breast-pocket. Certainly it was all done and settled, and put beyond the reach of uncertainty now. CHAPTER XII. THE HOUSE OF DREAMS. Pandolfini scarcely slept at all that night. His mind was full of dreams and visions, and an agitation beyond his control. He let himself in to his sombre _appartamento_, which was all empty, echoing and vacant, and lit his lamp from the taper which he had carried with him up the dark stair-case. The rooms he inhabited were in an old palace which belonged to his family, but of which he had only a corner now. Upstairs lived an old couple of his kindred who had their _terzo piano_ by right of blood. In the higher storeys there were some suites of smaller rooms let to smaller people. Down below in the _piano nobile_ was an English family, the usual tenants of everything worth tenanting. His second floor contained some handsome rooms, and there was one at least which showed more signs of being lived in than seems natural to Italian rooms. It was somewhat richly hung with old tapestry. There was a carpet--unusual luxury!--covering the centre of the floor, and the walls which were not tapestried were clad with book-shelves. Books, too, were in all the corners, piled even on the floor, but carefully piled and in order, arranged by a hand that loved them. There was no sign of any one living but himself in the dark silent place, where his little open lamp with its three slightly flickering flames made a mere speck of light in the darkness, and his foot on the marble of the floor made an echoing sound all through the house till it reached the sanctuary of the old soft Turkey carpet, from which long usage had worn the pattern here and there.