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167 STRAIT IS THE GATE

room, into which I had not as yet been this year. What flattering hopes arose in me at once! For I had not got beyond blaming myself for my sadness; one word from her would have healed my heart. I never went into this room without emotion; I cannot tell what it was that made up the kind of melodious peace which breathed in it, and in which I recognised Alissa. The blue shadow of the curtains at the windows and round the bed, the furniture of shining mahogany, the order, the spotlessness, the silence, all spoke to my heart of her purity and pensive grace. I was astonished that morning to see that two large photographs of Masaccio's, which I had brought back from Italy, were no longer on the wall beside her bed; I was on the point of asking her what had become of them when my glance fell on the book-shelf close by where she used to keep her bedside books. This little collection had been gradually formed, partly by the books I had given her, partly by others which we had read together. I had just noticed that all these books had been removed, and that they had been replaced exclusively by a number of insignificant little works of vulgar piety, for which I hoped she had nothing but contempt. Raising my eyes sud-

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