Kenyon now looked at Donatello.
"You seem out of spirits, my dear friend," he observed. "This languid Roman atmosphere is not the airy wine that you were accustomed to breathe at home. I have not forgotten your hospitable invitation to meet you this summer at your castle among the Apennines. It is my fixed purpose to come, I assure you. We shall both be the better for some deep draughts of the mountain breezes."
"It may be," said Donatello, with unwonted sombreness "the old house seemed joyous when I was a child. But as I remember it now it was a grim place, too."
The sculptor looked more attentively at the young man, and was surprised and alarmed to observe how entirely the fine, fresh glow of animal spirits had departed out of his face. Hitherto, moreover, even while he was standing perfectly still, there had been a kind of possible gambol indicated in his aspect. It was quite gone now. All his youthful gaiety, and with it his simplicity of manner, was eclipsed, if not utterly extinct.
"You are surely ill, my dear fellow " exclaimed Kenyon.
"Am I? Perhaps so," said Donateilo indifferently; "I never have been ill, and know not what it may be."
"Do not make the poor lad fancy-sick," whispered Miriam, pulling the sculptor's sleeve. "He is of a nature to lie down and die at once, if he finds himself drawing such melancholy breaths as we ordinary people are enforced to burden our lungs withal. But we must get him away from this old, dreamy, and dreary Rome, where
