Is it not so, Master ?" "I dare say," agreed Cheiron.

He was watching with deep interest for her verdict upon things.
"It gives me the impression of solid riches," she went on, "the encouragement of looms of costly stuffs, the encouragement for workers in marble, in bronze, in frescoes, all the material gorgeous, tangible pleasures of sight and touch.

It is not poetic; it inspires admiration for great deeds, victorious navies, triumphs--banquets--I have no sense of music here except the music of feasting.

I have no sense of poetry except of odes to famous admirals or party leaders, and yet it is a great joy in its way and a noble monument to the proud manhood of the past." And she looked down from the balcony of the Palazzo Reale, where they were standing, into the town below.
Her thoughts had gone as ever to the man she loved.

He had this haughty spirit--he could have lived in those days--and she saw him a Doria, a Brignole-Sale or a Pallavicini, gorgeous, masterful and magnificent.
England in the present day was surely a _supplice_ for such an arrogant spirit as that of John Derringham.
The prosperous mercantile part of Genoa said nothing to her--she wanted always to wander where she could weave romances into the things round.
She had never seen any fine pictures before.