Walking along, he drew the two fair hands that clung to him into his own, and clasped them together against his breast, smiling down into the girls’ upturned faces; and for a moment the three, in their mutual affection and confidence, forgot the Signora. She walked on in front of them, her eyes cast down, and seemed to desire to remain apart. A silence fell upon them all—perhaps a sense of the silence about them, or perhaps that silence that always follows an expression of deep and tender affection, as when through the light and varied chat of a company is heard the tone of a musical instrument, and all the talk ceases for a moment; or, it may be, some touch from within or from without had reminded them that it was the day of the Holy Cross.
The drive home was very quiet, the Signora pointing out now and then some object of superlative interest as they passed it. “This is St. Clement’s, an ancient church over a still more ancient church. Mustn’t it be delightful to go digging under your house some day to repair a drain, or do some such thing, and presently come across the arch of a buried door, then, digging farther, find the whole door, then a mosaic pavement and a column of verde-antique, and so on, till a whole temple is revealed where you expected to find only earth and stones? Some such thing happened here. There is the Roman Forum a little beyond. Need I introduce this ruin to you?”
She pointed to the Colosseum, and then left them to their reflections. “Drive through the Via della Croce Bianca,” she said to the coachman, “and under the Arco dei
Pontani. Then pass Santa Maria in Monti, and go up Via de’ Santa Pudentiana.”
She saw them look eagerly at the beautiful fragments of Pallas Minerva and Mars Ultor she had chosen the route to show them; but they asked no questions, and she volunteered no explanations.
When they reached home the windows were all closed, and the curtains and persiane half drawn for coolness, and there was such a fragrance in the rooms that they all exclaimed. Every tall vase was crowded full of roses pink and yellow, and every little one held a bunch of deep purple violets.
“Could any one leave a prettier card?” the Signora asked, displaying her treasures. “When I find heaps of violets and roses in the spring, I always know who has been here during my absence. It is Mr. Coleman,” naming her bachelor friend of the semi-weekly cup of tea. “I bespeak for him a kind place in your regards. He is faithful, honest, obliging, and refined. I am under obligations to him for many kindnesses.”
“Marion says that violets are the Mayflowers of Italy,” Isabel remarked; “that they come as plentifully at the same time, and are sold as universally, as the trailing arbutus in New England.”
“And see what a deep blue they are!” the Signora said, leading the conversation away from Marion. “These came from the Villa Borghese. I know by the color. Oh! the fields are full of flowers now. You will, perhaps, see some this evening. There are almost always a few people come in this night of the week—people who never find me at any other time. It isn’t a reception, you know. I don’t bind myself. Among them
will be your Italian teacher; so you can arrange when to begin studying. I sent him a note this morning. And, stay! Apropos of violets, I have something lovely to show you.”