Vast, lofty, sombre; the walls hung with dark-green tapestry—­a pattern of vertical stripes, dark green and darker green; here and there a great dark painting, a Crucifixion, a Holy Family, in a massive dim-gold frame; dark-hued rugs on the tiled floor; dark pieces of furniture, tables, cabinets, dark and heavy; and tall windows, bare of curtains at this season, opening upon a court—­a wide stone-eaved court, planted with fantastic-leaved eucalyptus-trees, in the midst of which a brown old fountain, indefatigable, played its sibilant monotone.

In the streets there were the smells, the noises, the heat, the glare of August of August in Rome, “the most Roman of the months,” they say; certainly the hottest, noisiest, noisomest, and most glaring.  But here all was shadow, coolness, stillness, fragrance-the fragrance of the clean air coming in from among the eucalyptus-trees.

Beatrice, critical-eyed, stood before a pier-glass, between two of the tall windows, turning her head from side to side, craning her neck a little—­examining (if I must confess it) the effect of a new hat.  It was a very stunning hat—­if a man’s opinion hath any pertinence; it was beyond doubt very complicated.  There was an upward-springing black brim; there was a downward-sweeping black feather; there was a defiant white aigrette not unlike the Shah of Persia’s; there were glints of red.

The priest sat in an arm-chair—­one of those stiff, upright Roman arm-chairs, which no one would ever dream of calling easy-chairs, high-backed, covered with hard leather, studded with steel nails—­and watched her, smiling amusement, indulgence.

He was an oldish priest—­sixty, sixty-five.  He was small, lightly built, lean-faced, with delicate-strong features:  a prominent, delicate nose; a well-marked, delicate jaw-bone, ending in a prominent, delicate chin; a large, humorous mouth, the full lips delicately chiselled; a high, delicate, perhaps rather narrow brow, rising above humorous grey eyes, rather deep-set.  Then he had silky-soft smooth white hair, and, topping the occiput, a tonsure that might have passed for a natural bald spot.

He was decidedly clever-looking; he was aristocratic-looking, distinguished-looking; but he was, above all, pleasant-looking, kindly-looking, sweet-looking.

He wore a plain black cassock, by no means in its first youth —­brown along the seams, and, at the salient angles, at the shoulders, at the elbows, shining with the lustre of hard service.  Even without his cassock, I imagine, you would have divined him for a clergyman—­he bore the clerical impress, that odd indefinable air of clericism which everyone recognises, though it might not be altogether easy to tell just where or from what it takes its origin.  In the garb of an Anglican —­there being nothing, at first blush, necessarily Italian, necessarily un-English, in his face—­he would have struck you, I think, as a pleasant, shrewd old