Then, he had said something about
Florence, and Cinque-Cento, and Jacopo Bellini. The bishop, a practical
man, had not much use for Jacopo Bellini or for people who talked about
him. None the less, while making himself useful with unpacking and
arranging things, Denis dropped a remark which struck Mr. Heard.
"The canvas of Nepenthe," he observed, "is rather overcharged."
Rather overcharged. . . .
It was true, thought the bishop, as he glanced out of his window that
evening, all alone, over the sea into which a young moon was just
sinking to rest. Overcharged! A ceaseless ebb and flow of humanity
surged before his weary eyes. That sense of irreality which had struck
him on his first view of the island was still persisting; the south
wind, no doubt, helped this illusion. He remembered the general
affluence and kindliness of the people; that, at least, had made a
definite mark upon his mind. He liked the place. Already he felt at
home here, and in better health. But when he tried to conjure up some
definite impression of town and people, the images became blurred; the
smiling priest, the Duchess, Mr.
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