He still went daily below-stairs in the lift to take his meals, but he now dined at a small table alone with Stella, after the table-d'hôte in the spacious, lonely dining-hall. His frequent attacks of coughing made him shun society. He dreaded annoying others.
"I am no longer fit to mingle with my kind, Stella," he would say. "My poor little butterfly, it is tiresome to have such a father, is it not?"
She, apparently, did not find it so. She desired nothing beyond the privilege of taking care of him, although she could be little more than a weak, helpless child. By day she cheered him with her lively talk, and at night if he stirred she was beside his bed in an instant in her long dressing-gown, her little bare feet thrust into slippers, supporting him in her arms if he coughed. Outside the moon shone full above the church of Santa Maria della Salute. Up from the garden was wafted the odour of roses and syringas, while above the swampy atmosphere of the lagunes, and mingling with the plash of waters at the base of the old palaces, floated sweet, sad melodies,--the songs of the evening minstrels of Venice,--
"Vorrei baciar i tuoi capelli neri,"
and
"Penso alla prima volta in cui volgesti
Lo sguardo soave in sino a me!"
Sometimes she would fall asleep sitting beside his bed, her head resting on his pillow.
She grew to look like a shadow, so pale and worn did she become. He did all that he could to prevent her from coming to him at night, even threatening to employ a nurse, but the threat was never fulfilled.