Gzhatski, in the meantime, having proposed to Irene in jest, knowing perfectly well that she would refuse, had suddenly, once the proposal was made and rejected, begun to think seriously about marrying her. He had for some years past quite given up his old dreams of marriage, but having during the autumn previous to his Italian journey spent two lonely months in the country, away from all his friends, alone with an old devoted but badly trained servant, Gzhatski had often meditated with some sadness on the failure of his cherished plans, and on the lonely old age that awaited him. Irene’s innocence and simple-mindedness appealed to him, and emphatically as he assured her that indifference to wealth and position was a symptom of disease, this particular symptom was, nevertheless, in her case, pleasing to him. Her moral purity reminded him of his mother, though, indeed, one could hardly imagine two more diverse characters: the one deeply and passionately religious, the other embittered and indifferent even to her shattered ideals. Taking advantage of the impression produced on Irene’s mind by the “Life of Saint Amulfia,” and her resultant disillusionment on the subject of convents, Gzhatski persuaded her to venture a little out of her seclusion, and to see something of Roman society. The season was in full swing. Crowds of English and American tourists were besieging the hotels, and were being pitilessly fleeced. The Costanzi theatre engaged one famous singer after another, and great society hostesses vied with each other in the brilliancy of their receptions. Armies of peasant women and their children, in picturesque national costumes, wandered down from the Albanian hills to sell flowers to the _forestieri_ (foreigners). Old Rome seemed to have grown young again, and basked gaily in the golden spring sunshine. Gzhatski took Irene to the Horse Show, organized by the fashionable “Fox-hunters’ Club.” Fox-hunting, the recreation of the most aristocratic Roman circles, is a feature of the winter season. The perfect roads traversing the Campagna, the splendid views, the fresh air, the invigorating canter across the plain, a little harmless flirtation with the most elegant of equestriennes, all this is dear to the heart of the fashionable Roman. As to the foxes, they suffer but little at the hands of their aristocratic hunters! “The fox is an old Roman,” the more sincere sportsmen often frankly admit—“he knows every inch of the Campagna, much better than we do, and rarely lets himself be caught.” In answer to any question about the hunt, Roman “High Life” almost invariably asserts that the day was superb. “At the start, a fox was raised, but managed to evade the hunters, and finally escaped.”