Martial leant back in his chair and looked out through the open window at the fair country that lay before him. It was a noble land, this Spain that he had left so lightly all those years ago. Had he ever realized half how beautiful it was? But no good thinking of that now. Rome had drawn him as a magnet draws the iron; and, if Valeria herself had been unable to hold him, what could you expect of any landscape, however lovely? Perhaps he knew better now; but he would never have believed it, without the experience. But without doubt it was good to be home again. After all the rubs and rebuffs of life at Rome, spiced though they had been by some rare successes, there was a warm comfort in finding oneself an honoured person, with an assured position, which had not to be maintained by constant self-assertion. There had been the civic welcome on the day of his arrival and now followed the more personal and intimate renewals of acquaintance. Was he not waiting at this very moment to see Valeria for the first time since that old parting? Martial flattered himself that he was no sentimentalist, but his heart beat faster than it need have done at the thought of seeing her again.