He was watching with deep interest for her
verdict upon things.
"It gives me the impression of solid riches," she went on, "the
encouragement of looms of costly stuffs, the encouragement for workers
in marble, in bronze, in frescoes, all the material gorgeous, tangible
pleasures of sight and touch. It is not poetic; it inspires admiration
for great deeds, victorious navies, triumphs--banquets--I have no sense
of music here except the music of feasting. I have no sense of poetry
except of odes to famous admirals or party leaders, and yet it is a
great joy in its way and a noble monument to the proud manhood of the
past." And she looked down from the balcony of the Palazzo Reale, where
they were standing, into the town below.
Her thoughts had gone as ever to the man she loved. He had this haughty
spirit--he could have lived in those days--and she saw him a Doria, a
Brignole-Sale or a Pallavicini, gorgeous, masterful and magnificent.
England in the present day was surely a _supplice_ for such an arrogant
spirit as that of John Derringham.
The prosperous mercantile part of Genoa said nothing to her--she wanted
always to wander where she could weave romances into the things round.
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