He ate his breakfast slowly, and sat down in an old-fashioned chair to smoke a cigarette and bask in the sunshine while it lasted.  It was not much like prison, and he did not feel like a man arrested for murder.  He was conscious for a long time of nothing but a vague, peaceful contentment.  He had given a list of things to be bought, including a couple of novels, to the man who waited upon him, and after a few hours everything was brought.  The day passed tranquilly, and when he went to bed he smiled as he blew out the candle, partly at himself and partly at his situation.

“My friends will not say that I am absolutely lacking in originality,” he reflected as he went to sleep.

On the morrow he read less and thought more.  In the first place he wondered how long he should be left without any communication from the outside world.  He wondered whether any steps had been taken towards bringing him to a trial, or whether the cardinal really knew that he was innocent, and was merely making him act out the comedy he had himself invented and begun.  He was not impatient, but he was curious to know the truth.  It was now the third day since he had seen Corona, and he had not prepared her for a long absence.  If he heard nothing during the next twenty-four hours it would be better to take some measures for relieving her anxiety, if she felt any.  The latter reflection, which presented itself suddenly, startled him a little.  Was it possible that she would allow a week to slip by without expecting to hear from him or asking herself where he was?  That was out of the question.  He admitted the impossibility of such indifference, almost in spite of himself.  He was willing, perhaps, to think her utterly heartless rather than accept the belief in an affection which went no farther than to hope that he might be safe; but his vanity or his intuition, it matters little which of the two, told him that Corona felt more than that.  And yet she did not love him.  He sat for many hours, motionless in his chair, trying to construct the future out of the past, an effort of imagination in which he failed signally.  The peace of his solitude was less satisfactory to him than at first, and he began to suspect that before very long he might even wish to return to the world.  Possibly Corona might come to see him.  The cardinal would perhaps think it best to tell her what had happened.  How would he tell it?  Would he let her know all?  The light faded from the room, and the attendant brought his evening meal and set two candles upon the table.

Hitherto it could not be said that he had suffered.  On the contrary, his character had regained its tone after weeks of depression.  Another day was ended, and he went to rest, but he slept less soundly than before, and on the following morning he awoke early.  The monotony of the existence struck him all at once in its reality.  The fourth day would be like the third, and, for all he knew, hundreds to come would