Thus the familiarity between them seemed rather that of kindness and regard than passion.

He attended the theatre; he stole behind the scenes to converse with her; he filled his portfolio with countless sketches of a beauty that charmed him as an artist as well as lover; and day after day he floated on through a changing sea of doubt and irresolution, of affection and distrust.

The last, indeed, constantly sustained against his better reason by the sober admonitions of Mervale, a matter-of-fact man! The day following that eve on which this section of my story opens, Glyndon was riding alone by the shores of the Neapolitan sea, on the other side of the Cavern of Posilipo.

It was past noon; the sun had lost its early fervour, and a cool breeze sprung up voluptuously from the sparkling sea.

Bending over a fragment of stone near the roadside, he perceived the form of a man; and when he approached, he recognised Zanoni.
The Englishman saluted him courteously.