Against the wall stood a rough table with an inkstand and three or four mouldy books.

Above this hung a little black cross bearing a brass Christ, and above this again a coloured print of San Bernardino of Siena.

The walls were whitewashed, and perfectly clean,--as indeed was everything else in the room,--and there was a sweet smell of flowers from a huge pot of pinks which had been taken in for the night, and stood upon the stone sill within the closed window.
The curate was a tall old man, with a singularly gentle face and soft brown eyes.

He wore a threadbare cassock, carefully brushed; and from beneath his three-cornered black cap his thin hair hung in a straight grey fringe.

As the Prince entered the room, the old woman called over his shoulder to the priest an uncertain formula of introduction.
"Don Paolo, _c'e uno_--there is one." Then she retired, grumbling audibly.
The priest removed his cap, and bowing politely, offered one of the two chairs to his visitor.