As the bishop
took a seat beside him they exchanged a few words. The Italian, so
affable as a rule, was rather preoccupied and disinclined for talk.
Mr. Heard remembered his first encounter with that old man--the Salt of
the South, as Keith had called him. It was at those theatricals in the
Municipality. Then too the Count had been remarkably silent, his chin
reposing in his hand, absorbed in the spectacle--in the passionate grace
of the young players. He was absorbed in another spectacle now--the old
sun, moving in passionless splendour down the sky.
Only a fortnight ago, that first meeting. Less than a fortnight. Twelve
days. How much had been crammed into them!
A kind of merry nightmare. Things happened. There was something bright
and diabolical in the tone of the place, something kaleidoscopic--a
frolicsome perversity. Purifying, at the same time. It swept away the
cobwebs. It gave you a measure, a standard, whereby to compute earthly
affairs. Another landmark passed; another milestone on the road to
enlightenment.
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