But supposing----then what could be done to make the faded things bright, to renovate, and warm, and light up his house for her coming? He dropped back into his chair and began to think. Could any magic make these apartments worthy of her? Then he rose hastily, unable to be still in his excitement, and took up his lamp in his hand again, and began to go over the room, his head throbbing with agitating thoughts. Every new door he opened sent a thrill of echoes through the place, until at last they disturbed the rest of old Antonio, who sallied forth in alarm, his grey locks tumbled from his pillow, his eyes fiery yet full of sleep, a coloured counterpane wrapped round him for want of better. “Ah! it is only the _padrone_,” cried Antonio, turning his back without another word, but with muttered grumblings in his throat. He was angry to be disturbed. “Surely he walks enough in the day to leave one tranquil at night,” the old man grumbled, as he restored the counterpane to his bed. Then a momentary thought struck him that it might not be the _padrone_ at all, but his double, presaging evil. But after a moment’s thought, Antonio dismissed that idea; for had not his quick eye caught that very thin place, not yet a hole, on the right leg of the _padrone’s_ pantoloons, which he had brushed so carefully that morning? No ghost risen from the grave could know about that thin place. So Antonio went grumbling yet calm to bed. Pandolfini took little notice of this old grey apparition. He gave the old man a nod, and passed on. There were many empty rooms to go through, all furnished after a sort, all with cold glistening marble floors, dim great mirrors, into which his lamp gleamed with mysterious reflections, dark pictures, bits of tapestry, here a frescoed wall, there a richly decorated roof. The remains of wealth, or rather the ghosts of wealth, were there standing with a forlorn pride in the midst of the cold and of the dim reflected lights. Of all the rooms he went into, only his own library could be called inhabitable, much less comfortable; and yet there was a faded grace and dignity in everything. Would she prize that and understand it? he wondered. Ah yes! Could it be possible that Diana did not understand everything, see everything with the noblest, gentlest comprehension of all that had been noble, then she would not have been the Diana of his thoughts. She would understand. She would learn the story of the house, and its decadence, and its pride--all in a glance. But--would she prefer her English comfort, her warmth of carpets and close-drawn hangings, and the insular way of cushioning and smoothing over every sharp corner--to this old chill splendour and poverty? He could not answer himself with any satisfaction; and his thoughts carried him further to his little farm in Tuscany, and the villa with its bare rooms and terraces, which had not even any trace of old splendour to veil the present poverty.