of Isabel, under this sky, in this charming place?  Perhaps I had been starved too.  Yet because of her personality, the radiant flame which was herself, the laughing and girlish genius which was in her, but above all the spiritual integrity which was hers, I stood in awe of her.  But that awe was sufficiently explained by her devotion to her husband.  I saw in her eyes honor and truth, and the peace of mind that sometimes comes with them, all the while that I felt the blood surge around my heart and pulsate in my hands.  There seemed to be nothing now of which we could not speak.  Her interest in children betrayed itself in exclamations over the ragged little Italians playing in the court.  I wondered if my heart had ever been profoundly stirred.  I had married Dorothy.  But suppose Zoe had not been in my life to have offended and alienated Dorothy’s interest for a time, and thus to have energized this English will which was mine for conquest of the farm, for the killing of Lamborn—­for the continued pursuit of Dorothy?  In such case had I married Dorothy?  What would life have been to me if I had met Isabel when I first knew Dorothy?  This woman of white flame talking of art, of travel, of Rome, of religion, of beauty; giving way to girlish chuckles and laughter.  Was she not closer to me, as temperate genius of the North, than Dorothy, out of the languor and the romanticism of the South?  Was not Douglas closer to the North, which Isabel seemed to me now to symbolize, than to that South with which his fate had now so long been entangled?

A step is heard.  The old stair creaks, and Serafino’s head appears above the railing.  We look up, aroused from our enchantment.  The afternoon lights are slanting across the Campagna.  It is time to go.  I have overpaid the waiter.  He honestly offers to rectify it.  Isabel laughs, seeing that I am oblivious of such worldly things.  That breaks the spell.  And we drive back to Rome and our pension.

CHAPTER LIII

I begin to wonder about my Reverdy.  At the school I see him in association with English boys.  He is not so strong as they, not so handsome, not so alert and apt.  Isabel has never had a child and wants one with consuming passion.  This boy is mine, but am I better off than Isabel?  My life grows clearer to me.  I have receded from it and can see it better.  I can look out upon Rome and then close my eyes and recall Chicago.  I think of my long years of money making; then I turn to reflection upon art and life.  I thrill in the presence of Isabel; then I remember the mild but tender passion which Dorothy aroused in me.