When the spring began to muffle the rugged old city with its clambering festoons, it seemed to him that he had done a handsome winter's work and had fairly earned a holiday.

He took a liberal one, and lounged away the lovely Roman May, doing nothing.

He looked very contented; with himself, perhaps, at times, a trifle too obviously.

But who could have said without good reason?
He was "flushed with triumph;" this classic phrase portrayed him, to Rowland's sense.

He would lose himself in long reveries, and emerge from them with a quickened smile and a heightened color.