IV
TERESA next morning lay late in bed, reading the Arabian Nights in sixteen large volumes of delicious French. The books had come two days before, and were a gift in honour of her anniversary, from her sister's husband, Ernesto di Pepoli. Teresa had a contempt for Ernesto, but she was forced to admit that he had a distinct grace in the small things of life. She had not seen him for two years, and who else would have remembered so long that she loved the Arabian Nights? In her delight at getting them she had written Ernesto a really affectionate letter; in spite of her reflection that the money to pay for those sixteen volumes (Ernesto had had them bound at Siena) would have to come out of Nina's shallow pocket. Nina had sent only a cablegram.
The door of Teresa's room was open, and from the tiny hall and drawing-room (the whole flat was no bigger than Erhart's studio) came the scent of flowers. The people who knew her best had remembered yesterday for she and Basil were still in the state of obvious content with one another which made floral recognition suitable. Most of the flowers, indeed, had been
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