He nodded his head, whose white hairs had taken a reflected glitter from the light without, and, leaving the blind up and the shutters open, he turned again to his writing-table, took up his pen, and resumed his work. He was writing about days long gone by; about old Rome, and things that had happened in her. It was an employment in which he succeeded, almost always, in finding repose for his mind, peace for his thoughts. He had written on for some time when he heard the hall-door open and shut. He had no doubt as to who the visitor might be, but as a matter of precaution he got up, opened the door, and looked forth into the hall, where the light was still burning. He had been right. Hans Riemann was there, hanging up his little woollen cap upon a peg of the hatstand. His face was pale and angry. When he saw Signor Giuseppe, he did not speak, but looked at him with a curious expression. ‘You have fastened the door?’ asked the latter. ‘Yes, I’m off to bed. I think I shall be off altogether, very soon. This is a dull hole when all is said and done.’ ‘In the name of our hostess and her family I thank you for your kind expressions,’ replied Signor Giuseppe, very politely and very cuttingly. Hans’ face flushed. ‘Did it sound rude?’ he asked, in a tone of indifference which heightened the said rudeness. ‘I’m sorry if it did. Good-night.’ He ran quickly up the stairs. Signor Oriole, shrugging his shoulders, returned to his study and his work. After some time--he knew not how long--the first sensation stole over him of something which he took for weariness. At first he did not heed it, but wrote on, wishing to finish a long paragraph in which he was engaged. The curious sensation continued. He laid his pen down, and, resting one elbow on the table, propped his head on his hand, and meditated a little. As he meditated, he gradually grew conscious of the intense silence and stillness which prevailed both inside and outside--conscious of it, and impressed by it. It must have been working itself into his senses and his brain all the time that he had been writing, and most likely irritating him. Signor Giuseppe was a true Roman; he could work better, play better, think, philosophize, yea, even sleep better, in a noise than in the most idyllic silence ever known. Just now he shrugged his shoulders, and muttered to himself: ‘Per Dio! what a deathly silence!’ Oppressed by it, he knew not why, he went towards the window with the half-formed intention of closing it. It was as if the immense silence of the night flowed in through the open window, and imposed itself upon that which reigned in the house also, and made it almost intolerable to him. Standing there near the window, and looking out, and again oppressed by the silence, he recalled to himself the walk home with Minna one night, from her studio to Casa Dietrich, when she had spoken to him of the noise of Rome, and of how she delighted in it.