nothing later than Luca Signorelli, and abhorred Canova and everything that has come after him.
But there were some little figures in marble of young children that she could conscientiously buy; and the little Meissonier and Fortuny-like pictures were clever, if they were mere trick-work and told no story; and the modern oak carvings were really good; and on the whole she enjoyed her morning unusually; and her companion looked pleased, because she found things to praise.
As she walked, with Della Rocca beside her, in and out the dusky passage ways, with the obnoxious Valenciennes under her skirts sweeping the stones, and her silvery marabouts glancing like hoar-frost in the shadows of the looming walls, the Lady Hilda felt very happy, and on good terms with herself and the world. No doubt, she thought, it was the fresh west wind blowing up the river from the sea which had done her so much good.
The golden Ostensoir, to which she had likened Floralia, no longer seemed filled with cigar-ash and absinthe dregs; but full of the
