Those were to know what to do, now the inevitable, against which he had made no provision, was upon him. He had sung like the improvident grasshopper, and the winter of his rapture found him unprepared. Was it still possible they might communicate, and arrange some plan of action? And, if so, what plan? At the least it must be a mad and a desperate one, staking their all on the cast, hopeless from the first of compromise. Yet he was ready, if she was brave. He must learn that; must force the knowledge somehow. Or would she find means to provide him with it unasked? Not for one moment would he believe in the reality of her asserted reconciliation to her doom. He was as sure of her true heart as he was of his own imperishable constancy. Yet what to do? He did nothing. As, I opine, all but the resourceful heroes of romance would do under like circumstances, so did he--he temporised. He could not bring himself to believe, indeed, that their separation was final. He was always in the hope that, the formal betrothal achieved, she would be allowed to return to Colorno; and he was doggedly resolved, pending such blissful restoration, not only to outstay his welcome, but to ignore the broadest and least delicate hints, of which the marquise was not sparing, that he might with advantage to everyone be gone. His amiable persistency even had its effect at length on the rude old lady; especially when, for diplomacy’s sake, he brought the persuasion of his voice to bear upon her still responsive susceptibilities. The suggestion that, the main theme withdrawn, he could find even freer inspiration for his songs in her ripe understanding came so to captivate her that in the end, from suffering his flatteries, she quite coveted them--and, finally, she made love to him. Thereat, a little alarmed, he drew back; and perhaps so obviously as to precipitate his own downfall. But of that in a moment. In the meanwhile he spent the most of his days in wandering about the now desolate grounds, his heart a prey to vain longings and vainer expectations. No word or sign came in all this time to solace or decide him; he walked, the very spirit of loneliness and brooding melancholy, a being most pathetically haunted. Once he went to Aquaviva’s gardens; and talked graciously with the little Bissy because he was a pet of hers; and spent a sweet sad hour in the orange grove, absorbed in one delirious memory. But mostly he frequented the palace walks, retasting unforgettable delights. He could have kissed her lilies one by one on their open mouths; to stand approximately in her footprints was a fatuous joy to him; often he stole to her vacant windows, and committed his soul to their sweet inaccessible mysteries. The children he rather avoided. They worried him with their unfeeling prattle. Yet still he lingered on. It could not last much longer; and he knew it could not. But what was to be the end?