Page 406 - the-portrait-of-a-lady

was there, and yet not seeing many of the items enumer-
ated in her Murray. Rome, as Ralph said, confessed to the
psychological moment. The herd of reechoing tourists had
departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into
solemnity. The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the
fountains in their mossy niches had lost its chill and dou-
bled its music. On the corners of the warm, bright streets
one stumbled on bundles of flowers. Our friends had gone
one afternoon—it was the third of their stay—to look at the
latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having been
for some time previous largely extended. They had descend-
ed from the modern street to the level of the Sacred Way,
along which they wandered with a reverence of step which
was not the same on the part of each. Henrietta Stackpole
was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had been paved
a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy be-
tween the deep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street
and the over-jangled iron grooves which express the inten-
sity of American life. The sun had begun to sink, the air
was a golden haze, and the long shadows of broken column
and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. Henrietta
wandered away with Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently
delightful to her to hear speak of Julius Caesar as a ‘cheeky
old boy,’ and Ralph addressed such elucidations as he was
prepared to offer to the attentive ear of our heroine. One of
the humble archaeologists who hover about the place had
put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated his les-
son with a fluency which the decline of the season had done
nothing to impair. A process of digging was on view in a re-

406 The Portrait of a Lady