RODERICK HUDSON
ican had not been curtailed, and it was an easy and delightful matter to pass from the gorgeous church to the solemn company of the antique marbles. Here it was that communication for our friends found its best allies; here Rowland, mounting a mild æsthetic hobby or two, might amble down long perspectives as with the ring of silver hoofs on marble floors. He discovered that she made notes of her likes and dislikes in a new-looking little pocket-book, and he wondered to what extent she reported his own discourse. These were hours of grave felicity. The galleries had been so cold all winter that Rowland had been an exile from them; but now that the sun was already scorching in the great square between the colonnades, where the twin fountains flashed almost fiercely, the comparative chill of the image-bordered vistas was as tonic as the breath of antiquity. The great herd of tourists had almost departed, and the couple often felt themselves for half an hour at a time in sole and tranquil possession of the beautiful Braccio Nuovo. Here and there was an open window, where they lingered and leaned, looking out into the warm dead air, over the towers of the city, at the soft-hued historic hills, at the stately, shabby gardens of the palace, or at some sunny empty grass-grown court lost in the heart of the labyrinthine pile. They went sometimes into the chambers painted by Raphael, and of course paid their respects to the Sistine Chapel; but Mary's evident preference was to linger among the marbles. Once, when they were standing before that noblest of sculptured portraits, the so-called De-
345
