“From childhood his life has been my guiding star,” Tarsis continued. “And to possess, to use the table that he used, is a privilege I never thought to enjoy. And the work itself,” he added, rising and drawing back to admire it, with an interest which no other object of art in the palace had been able to awaken in him, “is it not magnificent?”
“Quite a treasure,” acquiesced Don Riccardo, showing more concern in the bookcases, which he was sweeping with his eyes; but for Hera—explain it she could not—the thing inspired a strange aversion—a feeling that came vividly to her mind in after days when that table played its tragic part in the destiny of the man she called husband.
CHAPTER X
THE DOOR OF FRA PANDOLE
They followed Donna Beatrice and Tarsis across the figured expanse of pavement, down the grand staircase and through the portico to the gardens. Beyond the yellow wall at the backward limit they could see the red roofs of Via Cappuccini—humble abodes of workmen partly screened by the trees. All about them nature had opened her poetry book. Plants in the great urns were dappled with snowy fairness, the maples showed richly green, the magnolias were unfolding their eager beauty, and the air was rapturous with the voices of birds. When they had looked upon the row of swishing tails in the stable and surveyed the store of motor cars Donna Beatrice remarked to Tarsis, she and he standing apart from the others:
“I perceive that your wife cannot escape happiness. You are giving her all that mortal heart can wish.”
“I am following your advice,” he said, with a smile that his companion did not see was cunning—“striving to win her gratitude, you perceive. But I fear there is no short road to her affection.”
“My friend,” Donna Beatrice announced, impressively, “you are nearer to it than you believe.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Because it is inevitable,” she answered, positively. “Besides, I have never seen our Hera in happier mood.”
“Still, it may be studied,” Tarsis suggested, out of his deeper knowledge.