Don Paolo descended the stairs and entered the apartments through the usual green baize door, which swung upon its hinges by its own weight behind him.  He passed through several large halls, scantily and sombrely furnished, in the last of which stood the throne chair, turned to the wall, beneath a red canopy.  Beyond this great reception-chamber, and communicating with it by a low masked door, was the Cardinal’s study, a small room, very high and lighted by a single tall window which opened upon an inner court of the palace.  The furniture was very simple, consisting of a large writing-table, a few high-backed chairs, and the Cardinal’s own easy-chair, covered with dingy leather and well worn by use.  On the dark green walls hung two engravings, one a portrait of Pius IX., the other a likeness of Leo XIII.  The Cardinal himself sat in the arm-chair, holding a newspaper spread out upon his knees.

“Good-day, Don Paolo,” he said, in a pleasant, but not very musical voice.

His Eminence was a man about sixty years of age, hale and strong in appearance, but below the middle height and somewhat inclining to stoutness.  His face was round, and the complexion very clear, which, with his small and bright brown eyes, gave him a look of cheerful vitality.  Short white hair fringed his head where it was not covered by the small scarlet skull-cap.  He wore a purple cassock with scarlet buttons and a scarlet silk mantle, which fell in graceful folds over one arm of the chair.

“Good-day, Eminence,” answered Don Paolo, touching the great ruby ring with his lips.  Then, in obedience to a gesture, the priest sat down upon one of the high-backed chairs.

“What weather have we to-day?” asked the Cardinal after a pause.

“Scirocco, Eminence.”

“Ah, I thought so—­especially this morning, very early.  It is very disagreeable.  Since Padre Secchi found that the scirocco really brings the sand of the desert with it, I dislike it more than ever.  And what have you been doing, Don Paolo?  Have you been to see about the crucifix?”

“I spoke to my brother about it last night, Eminence.  He said he would do his best to make it in the time, but that he would have preferred to have a little longer.”

“He is a good artist, your brother,” said the Cardinal, nodding his head slowly and joining his hands, while the newspaper slipped to the floor.

“A good artist,” repeated Don Paolo, stooping to pick up the sheet.  “I have just seen his best work—­a crucifix such as your Eminence wishes.  Indeed, he proposed that you should take it, for he says he can make nothing better.”

“Let us see, let us see,” answered the prelate, in a tone which showed that he did not altogether like the proposal.  “You say he has it already made.  Tell me, has your brother much work to do just now?”

“Not much, Eminence.  He has just finished the grating of a chapel for some church or other.  I think I saw a silver ewer begun upon his table.”