So much had been anticipated from these now vanished hours, that it seemed as if no other day could bring back the same golden hopes.
In a case like this, it is doubtful whether Kenyon could have done a much better thing than he actually did, by going to dine at the Cafe Nuovo, and drinking a flask of Montefiascone; longing, the while, for a beaker or two of Donatello's Sunshine.

It would have been just the wine to cure a lover's melancholy, by illuminating his heart with tender light and warmth, and suggestions of undefined hopes, too ethereal for his morbid humor to examine and reject them.
No decided improvement resulting from the draught of Montefiascone, he went to the Teatro Argentino, and sat gloomily to see an Italian comedy, which ought to have cheered him somewhat, being full of glancing merriment, and effective over everybody's disabilities except his own.
The sculptor came out, however, before the close of the performance, as disconsolate as he went in.
As he made his way through the complication of narrow streets, which perplex that portion of the city, a carriage passed him.

It was driven rapidly, but not too fast for the light of a gas-lamp to flare upon a face within--especially as it was bent forward, appearing to recognize him, while a beckoning hand was protruded from the window.

On his part, Kenyon at once knew the face, and hastened to the carriage, which had now stopped.
"Miriam! you in Rome ?" he exclaimed "And your friends know nothing of it ?" "Is all well with you ?" she asked.
This inquiry, in the identical words which Donatello had so recently addressed to him from beneath the penitent's mask, startled the sculptor.

Either the previous disquietude of his mind, or some tone in Miriam's voice, or the unaccountableness of beholding her there at all, made it seem ominous.
"All is well, I believe," answered he doubtfully.