’When I wake in the morning, I shall have lived a month or two in Arabia, Zotti.  Tell me no more; I will come in,’ said Vittoria.

’Then, signorina, a little crisp filbert—­biscuit—­a composition!  You crack it, and a surprise!  And then, and then my dish; Zotti’s dish, that is not yet christened.  Signorina, let Italy rise first; the great inventor of the dish winked and nodded temperately.  ’Let her rise.  A battle or a treaty will do.  I have two or three original conceptions, compositions, that only wait for some brilliant feat of arms, or a diplomatic triumph, and I send them forth baptized.’

Vittoria threw large eyes upon Ammiani, and set the underlids humorously quivering.  She kissed her fingers:  ‘Addio; a rivederla.’  He bowed formally:  he was startled to find the golden thread of their companionship cut with such cruel abruptness.  But it was cut; the door had closed on her.  The moment it had closed she passed into his imagination.  By what charm had she allayed the fever of his anxiety?  Her naturalness had perforce given him assurance that peace must surround one in whom it shone so steadily, and smiling at the thought of Zotti’s repast and her twinkle of subdued humour, he walked away comforted; which, for a lover in the season of peril means exalted, as in a sudden conflagration of the dry stock of his intelligence.  ’She must have some great faith in her heart,’ he thought, no longer attributing his exclusion from it to a lover’s rivalry, which will show that more than imagination was on fire within him.  For when the soul of a youth can be heated above common heat, the vices of passion shrivel up and aid the purer flame.  It was well for Ammiani that he did perceive (dimly though it was perceived) the force of idealistic inspiration by which Vittoria was supported.  He saw it at this one moment, and it struck a light to light him in many subsequent perplexities; it was something he had never seen before.  He had read Tuscan poetry to her in old Agostino’s rooms; he had spoken of secret preparations for the revolt; he had declaimed upon Italy,—­the poetry was good though the declamation may have been bad,—­but she had always been singularly irresponsive, with a practical turn for ciphers.  A quick reckoning, a sharp display of figures in Italy’s cause, kindled her cheeks and took her breath.  Ammiani now understood that there lay an unspoken depth in her, distinct from her visible nature.

He had first an interview with Rocco Ricci, whom he prepared to replace Irma.

His way was then to the office of his Journal, where he expected to be greeted by two members of the Polizia, who would desire him to march before the central bureau, and exhibit proofs of articles and the items of news for inspection, for correction haply, and possibly for approval.  There is a partial delight in the contemplated submission to an act of servitude for the last time.  Ammiani stepped in with combative