Having once seen all the sights of Assisi, Irene seldom ventured out of doors. She spent most of her time on the little terrace of the hotel, admiring the view that was spread out before her, and growing, day by day, more attached to it. What a wealth, indeed, of variety and beauty was to be found there! At seven o’clock each morning she opened her window and let in the fresh, fragrant air. The whole valley then seemed to be asleep, wrapped in a dewy mist. At mid-day, however, all was smiling and basking in floods of brilliant sunlight, and towards five in the afternoon the sun, like a great ball of fire, disappeared in the West, the sky grew pale, and light-blue shadows gradually began to draw their veils across the plain. Even lovelier still was the night, when bright stars trembled like diamonds in the dark sky, and the young moon shone as far away, as coldly, and as indifferently as she shines in the North and in the mountains. The whole great valley was dotted with little lights; the neighbouring town of Perugia made a sudden splash of brightness, and the white roads wound about mysteriously among the dark fields. The silence was indescribable; not a sound was to be heard, except, from time to time, the distant barking of a dog, or the throb of a far-off, passing train. Irene began to feel the vague weariness of springtime. She had experienced so much of late, and had received so many new impressions, that her mind needed rest. She did not want to think about anything. Her thoughts moved lazily; she was placidly happy on the little terrace, with its palms and its flowers; she had no wish to go anywhere, she wanted only to repose in her comfortable wicker sofa-chair, and delight in nature. She often thought of Gzhatski, but always unwillingly, even with displeasure. “Why did I ever meet that man?” she thought resentfully. “Until he came, everything went well!” But for him, she would already have taken the veil, and would probably have found happiness. Why had she ever paid attention to the words of a mere passer-by, who had occupied himself with her affairs simply because he had nothing else to do? Very soon he would return to his Russia, where he had so many interests and so many friends, and would never even remember Irene. Perhaps it would be better to stay at Assisi until after he had left Rome. Having arrived at this decision, Irene wrote to Père Etienne, telling him that the mountain air was agreeing with her splendidly, and that she would not return to Rome till Easter. She posted her letter, and feeling pleased and relieved, went for a stroll in the balmy evening air. What was her astonishment and annoyance when, on her return, she found Gzhatski in the entrance-hall of the hotel, eagerly questioning the proprietor about something. Her face expressed such frank displeasure, that Gzhatski felt provoked.