By Jove! it is still an enigma to me what she meant.  Did she suppose I was really obliged to go? or, trusting to the power of her beauty, had she no doubt whatever that I would come back? or, finally, did she grasp at the chance to get rid of me?—­because after such a question there remained nothing for me but to go.  The caressing touch and accompanying question are a little against the last supposition, which after all seems to me the likeliest.  At odd moments I am almost certain she wanted to say by it:—­

“It is not you who dismiss me; it is I who dismiss you.”

I confess that, if it was a dismission, Laura’s cleverness is simply amazing; all the more so, as the manner was so sweet and caressing, and left me in uncertainty whether she was mocking me or not.  But why delude myself?  By that simple question she had won the game.  Perhaps at other times my vanity would have suffered; but now it leaves me indifferent.  That same evening, instead of coolness, there was perfect harmony between us.  We separated very late.  I see her still, walking with me, her eyes lowered, as far as my room.  She was simply so beautiful that I felt sorry I was going.  The next morning she said good-by to me at the station.  The bunch of tea-roses I lost only in Genoa.  Strange woman!  As I went further on my journey, I felt side by side a physical longing and a great relief.  I went on to Rome without stopping, and now feel as a bird released from his cage.

22 May.

There is scarcely anybody I know in Rome.  The heat has driven them to their villas, or up into the mountains.  In the daytime there are few people in the streets except tourists, mostly Englishmen in pith-helmets, puggarees, red Baedekers, with their everlasting “Very interesting!” on their lips.  At noon our Babuino is so deserted that the footstep of a solitary passer-by re-echoes on the pavement.  But in the evening the street swarms with people.  At that time I feel usually very depressed, nervous, and restless.  I go out, and walk about until I am tired; and that gives me relief.  I walk mostly on the Pincio, three or four times along that magnificent terrace.  At this time lovers stroll about.  Some couples walk arm in arm, their heads close together, their eyes uplifted, as if overflowing with happiness; others sit in the deep shadows of the trees.  The flickering light of the lamp reveals now and then half-concealed under his plumes the profile of a Bersagliere, sometimes the light dress of a girl, or the face of a laborer or student.  Whispers reach my ear; love-vows and low snatches of song.  All this gives me the impression of a carnival of spring.  I find a singular charm in thus losing myself among the crowd, and breathe their gayety and health.  There is so much happiness and simplicity!  This simplicity seems to penetrate into my whole being, and acts more soothingly upon my nerves than a sleeping draught.  The evenings are clear and warm, but