"Yes, it has changed very much since eight years ago, since mamma's death."
"I did not see it eight years ago," replied Lensky, roughly. "The Rome that I seek dates much further back."
"The Rome in which you were betrothed to our little mother," whispered Mascha, softly.
He nodded shortly, repellently. All at once his sad face cleared.
"There I still see old acquaintances," he cried, and pointed to two antique columns which, strangely enough, were built into a small house, one of whose tiny windows looked out over their time-blackened magnificence.
"That is just as at that time," cried the old man, animatedly, "even to the particulars of white curtains and red flowers. I remember how your mother once could not laugh enough at the contrast between these freshly washed curtains and the gloomy Roman splendor. Heavens, how she laughed! You can none of you laugh as she. I must show you the house in the Via Giulia, where she lived at that time."
"That has long disappeared," said Colia. "Even eight years ago it no longer existed."
"How do you know that?" burst out Lensky, quite harshly.
"Because she--because mamma sought it then and did not find it."
"Ah! she also sought it," murmured Lensky, and fell into a brooding silence. After a while he raised his head.