Not yet so much as this morning had she felt herself sink into possession; gratefully glad that the warmth of the Southern summer was still in the high florid rooms, palatial¹ chambers² where hard cool pavements took reflexions in their lifelong polish, and where the sun on the stirred sea-water, flickering³ up through open windows, played over the painted "subjects" in the splendid ceilings—medallions of purple and brown, of brave old melancholy⁴ colour, medals as of old reddened gold, embossed and beribboned, all toned with time and all flourished and scolloped and gilded⁵ about, set in their great moulded and figured concavity (a nest of white cherubs⁶, friendly creatures of the air) and appreciated by the aid of that second tier of smaller lights, straight openings to the front, which did everything, even with the Baedekers and photographs of Milly's party dreadfully meeting the eye, to make of the place an apartment of state. This at last only, though she had enjoyed the palace for three weeks, seemed to count as effective occupation; perhaps because it was the first time she had been alone—really to call alone—since she had left London, it ministered to her first full and unembarrassed sense of what the great Eugenio had done for her. The great Eugenio, recommended by grand-dukes and Americans, had entered her service during the last hours of all—had crossed from Paris, after multiplied pourparlers with Mrs. Stringham, to whom she had allowed more than ever a free hand, on purpose to escort her to the Continent and encompass⁷ her there, and had dedicated⁸ to her, from the moment of their meeting, all the treasures of his experience. She had judged him in advance—polyglot and universal, very dear and very deep—as probably but a swindler finished to the finger-tips; for he was forever carrying one well-kept Italian hand to his heart and

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