A veil of sadness, almost of suffering, seemed to have fallen over her face; her eyes, faintly luminous under the white lids, seemed drowned in shadow, the corners of her mouth drooped wearily, her right arm hung straight and languid at her side.

She no longer held out her hand to those who greeted her; she listened no longer to their speeches.
'What is the matter ?' asked Andrea.
'Nothing--I must go to the Van Hueffels' now.

Take me to Francesca to say good-bye, and then come with me down to my carriage.' They returned to the first drawing-room, where Luigi Gulli, a young man, swarthy and curly-haired as an Arab, who had left his native Calabria in search of fortune, was executing, with much feeling, Beethoven's sonata in C# minor.

The Marchesa d'Ateleta, a patroness of his, was standing near the piano, with her eyes fixed on the keys.

By degrees, the sweet and grave music drew all these frivolous spirits within its magic circle, like a slow-moving but irresistible whirlpool.
'Beethoven!' exclaimed Elena in a tone of almost religious fervour, as she stood still and drew her arm from Andrea's.
She had halted beside one of the great palms and, extending her left hand, began very slowly to put on her glove.