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Others crowded round the swinging doors of the coffee-house in

the piazza. The heavy cart-horses slipped and stamped upon the

rough stones, shaking their bells and trappings. Some of the

drivers were lying asleep on a pile of sacks. Iris-necked and

pink-footed, the pigeons ran about picking up seeds.

After a little while, he hailed a hansom and drove home. For a

few moments he loitered upon the doorstep, looking round at the

silent square, with its blank, close-shuttered windows and its

staring blinds. The sky was pure opal now, and the roofs of the

houses glistened like silver against it. From some chimney

opposite a thin wreath of smoke was rising. It curled, a violet

riband, through the nacre-coloured air.