"She may come to-day—I hope so," Orsino answered.
A long pause followed.
"I hope so, too," Spicca whispered. "I have not much strength left. I cannot wait much longer."
Again there was silence. Orsino knew that there was nothing to be said, nothing at least which he could say, to cheer the last hours of the lonely life. But Spicca seemed contented that he should sit there.
"Give me that photograph," he said, suddenly, a quarter of an hour later.
Orsino looked about him but could not see what Spicca wanted.
"Hers," said the feeble voice, "in the next room."
It was the photograph in the little chiselled frame—the same frame which had once excited Donna Tullia's scorn. Orsino brought it quickly from its place over the chimney-piece, and held it before his friend's eyes. Spicca gazed at it a long time in silence.
"Take it away," he said, at last. "It is not like her."
Orsino put it aside and sat down again. Presently Spicca turned a little on the pillow and looked at him.