Angelescu in Florence! Angelescu! The blood surged and beat in her temples, her hands shook as she raised the paper to her eyes. No, there could be no mistake, it must be he and no other!
For so long she had hardly thought of him; the realities of her everyday life had deadened her memory of the past, and unless something out of the ordinary occurred to recall them specially to her mind, her thoughts rarely turned to those days in Rome. Her household cares, the constant attention required by the children, her interest in her writing, which she still carried on, and the social intercourse with the little circle of friends she had formed, all these sufficiently occupied her time, leaving her but little leisure for brooding over past or present.
Egidio mocked at her social proclivities, at her friends, especially when they happened to be titled folk, and called her a snob, so that it was with terror and dismay that she viewed his arrival when any of her friends happened to be present, for unless they were young and pretty women, he exaggerated his habitual boorishness of manner. If a really pretty woman occupied his wife's drawing-room, his airs and graces were a sight to see, and caused Ragna even more shame than his rudeness.
It must be admitted that titles had an attraction for her, as they inevitably must to those in whose countries they are non-existent—strange that such should be the result of democracy—but a snob she was not. A title to her represented continuity of race, historic and chivalric tradition, something removed from the plane of ordinary life, and which appealed to her sense of romance. This must have been strong indeed, to blind her to the faults and weaknesses of the bearers of some of these titles, but such was the glamour of an historic name that her otherwise clear vision and independent judgment not infrequently played her false and she saw the object of her veneration through a rose-coloured mist which exaggerated qualities and obscured defects.
She had gone on from day to day, bearing her heavy burden with a sort of sodden resignation. Now and again a scene worse than usual made her feel that this life was past enduring, and she beat her wings against the bars, but never for long. The treadmill of the daily round carried her on and her half-hearted attempts at self-assertion fell by the wayside. The utmost she could oppose to her husband's tyranny was a passive resistance, infinitely irritating to him. His character was so much more violent than hers that if she attempted to meet him on his own ground, the force of his passion bore her down, swept her from her feet, buried her beneath the floods of his wrath. She had grown patient, God knows she had need to be; and just lately a dim light had shone on her horizon, a vague hope of relief, for Ingeborg had written that Fru Boyesen was relenting, had inquired after her wayward niece, had even asked to see the photographs of the children. If she should be restored to favour, reinstated as her Aunt's heiress it would mean for her the independence that only the possession of money can give, and it would silence for ever Egidio's taunts as to her dowerless state. He would have to consult her wishes when she had the money, she thought with secret exultation.
So time had passed, the present absorbing her whole being, barring out alike memories and regrets. The announcement of Angelescu's presence in Florence came to her as a trumpet-call, the dead rose from their graves, dead hopes, dead fears, dead emotions, and walked with her.
CHAPTER VII
She was relieved, when after dinner Egidio put on his hat and went out, not deigning any explanation, as was his custom. She took a book, and settled herself in an armchair by the lamp, but not to read; her eyes followed the printed lines but her thoughts were far away.
"If I had accepted Angelescu's offer," she mused, "what a difference it would have made. Why, oh why was I such a fool? I refused a good man, a loyal man,—I knew he was true and loyal—to come to this!"