The Ai Revolution in Project Management Elevating Productivity With Generative Ai 1St Edition Kanabar Full Chapter
The Ai Revolution in Project Management Elevating Productivity With Generative Ai 1St Edition Kanabar Full Chapter
The Ai Revolution in Project Management Elevating Productivity With Generative Ai 1St Edition Kanabar Full Chapter
Dedication
Preface
Introduction
Definition of AI and Project Management
The Importance of AI in Project Management
Overview of the Book
1. Dawn of a New Era
2. Stakeholders and Generative AI
3. Building and Managing Teams Using AI
4. Choosing a Development Approach with AI
5. AI-Assisted Planning for Predictive Projects
6. Adaptive Projects and AI
7. Monitoring Project Work Performance with AI
8. The Role of AI in Risk Management
9. Finalizing Projects with AI
10. AI Tools for Project Management
11. Looking Ahead
Contents
Dedication
Preface
Introduction
Definition of AI and Project Management
The Importance of AI in Project Management
Overview of the Book
1. Dawn of a New Era
Not Robots
AI and Brook’s Law
Artificial Intelligence
ChatGPT
Prompt Engineering
Ethical Considerations and Professional Responsibility
Key Points to Remember
Technical Guide
2. Stakeholders and Generative AI
Identifying Project Stakeholders
The Impact of AI on Stakeholder Expectations
Stakeholder Analysis with AI
Engaging Stakeholders Through AI-Driven
Communication
AI as a Stakeholder for Project Management?
Ethical Considerations and Professional
Responsibilities
Key Points to Remember
Technical Guide
3. Building and Managing Teams Using AI
AI-Assisted Recruitment and Selection
AI-Driven Team Onboarding, Training, and
Development
Enhancing Leadership with AI
Using AI Tools to Enhance Team Collaboration
AI in Conflict Resolution and Decision-Making
Ethical Considerations and Professional Responsibility
Key Points to Remember
Technical Guide
4. Choosing a Development Approach with AI
Understanding Predictive, Adaptive, and Hybrid Life
Cycle Approaches
Using AI to Select the Right Development Approach for
Projects
Tailoring Your Approach with AI
Ethical Considerations and Professional Responsibility
Key Points to Remember
Technical Guide
5. AI-Assisted Planning for Predictive Projects
AI-Assisted Project Initiation
AI-Assisted Planning
Technical Guide
AI-Assisted Project Scope Definition
AI in WBS Creation
Creating a Schedule from the WBS using AI
AI-Enhanced Cost Estimation and Budgeting
Ethical Considerations and Professional Responsibility
Key Points to Remember
Technical Guide
6. Adaptive Projects and AI
Adaptive Projects
Scrum Prompts
Agile Estimation
Project Execution
Project Measurement and Tracking
Ethical Considerations and Professional Responsibility
Key Points to Remember
Technical Guide
7. Monitoring Project Work Performance with AI
Direct and Manage Project Work
Quality Management with AI
AI in Monitoring and Controlling Project Work
Validating and Controlling Scope, Schedule, and Cost
with AI
Ethical Considerations and Professional Responsibility
Key Points to Remember
Technical Guide
8. The Role of AI in Risk Management
Risk Identification with AI: Understanding Threats and
Opportunities
Enhancing Traditional Risk Identification Methods with
AI
Qualitative Risk Analysis and AI
Quantitative Risk Analysis and AI
AI in Risk Responses
AI in Risk Monitoring
Ethics and Professional Responsibility
Key Points to Remember
Technical Guide
9. Finalizing Projects with AI
Releasing Products and Services
Verifying and Validating Project Deliverables and
Usability Testing with AI
Deployment with Knowledge from AI
Project Closure
Value Delivery
Ethics and Professional Responsibility
Key Points to Remember
Technical Guide
10. AI Tools for Project Management
Value and Implications of AI Integrated Tools for
Project Managers
Factors to Consider When Evaluating AI Tools
Project Management Systems
Scheduling Tools
Communication and Meeting Tools
Productivity and Documentation Tools
Collaboration and Brainstorming Tools
Ethics and Professional Responsibility
Key Points to Remember
Technical Guide
11. Looking Ahead
Embrace of AI Is a Boon to Project Management
The AI-Powered Future in Enterprises
Risks From AI
Introduce AI Solutions Only to Address a Need
Closing Remarks
Dedication
Not Robots
I hope that you, as a reader, will keep the fact that GPT-4 is
not a conscious being at the front of your own wondrously
human mind. In my opinion, this awareness is key to
understanding how, when, and where to use GPT-4 most
productively and most responsibly.1
After the interviews, Ellen felt a bit torn between the two
candidates. She turned to HR-GPT again, which provided an
analysis comparing the candidates based on their responses,
past job performances, and fit with the company culture.
This made Ellen’s decision more straightforward.
• Interview Scheduling:
• Interview Preparation:
• Onboarding Preparation:
Brooks’ Law
• Calendar Integration:
• Waitlist System:
• Communication Features:
This solution is honed from its vast training data. While the
recommendations provide valuable insights for a project
solution, the final decision requires human intuition,
experience, and judgment.
Diverse Expertise
4. Prioritization Session:
5. Set Up a Meeting:
6. Documentation:
W HEN we presently swung open the plate-glass door of the café that had
done so much for Deering, he was manifestly anxious—suppose that
just on this afternoon it should fail of its effect! For his sake as well as
for my own I hoped we should find reality there as usual. He glanced
searchingly among the tables, most of which were crowded about by hot and
talkative men; there was a tremendous rattle of conversation in all parts of
the big pillared saloon. He paused for a moment, and then he nodded with
relief in the direction of a distant corner; he twisted his way there between
the tables, I followed him, and we found a gap upon a plush seat, under a
huge mirror painted with sprays of climbing water-lilies. We squeezed
ourselves into the vacant space with polite apologies, and Deering
immediately introduced me to a young man who sat facing us, a big young
man with a low collar and a straw hat much too small for him. Deering
mentioned his name, “Mr. Bannock,” and Mr. Bannock extended a large
hand and said he was happy to meet me.
He was a young and rather common American; he smiled upon me with a
wide mouthful of teeth and said he was pleased to make my acquaintance. I
began to respond as I could, but he interrupted me to say that he was glad to
know a friend of “our friend Mr. Deering.” I began again, but he broke in to
observe that our friend Mr. Deering was a lovely man. I rejoined that
Deering was quite the loveliest of—— “And I can tell you something about
him that you may not know,” said Mr. Bannock, spreading his palm at
Deering as though he were showing off a picture; “our friend Mr. Deering is
not only a lovely man, he is a great artist—and I go further, I say that Mr.
Deering possesses the most remarkable understanding of, and sympathy
with, the mentality of the artist that it has ever been my lot to encounter. And
when I assert that even an old friend of Mr. Deering like yourself may be
ignorant of that side of his character, I am thinking of that positively
damnable modesty of his, which has prevented him, which always will
prevent him——” But I can’t do justice to the turn of the periods of Mr.
Bannock, which coiled around and around me like an anaconda, slowly
deadening my attention. Between the limber muscularity of his phrases and
the glittering crescent of his teeth I was numbed and fascinated. He
continued to address me as an old but not a very perceptive friend of
Deering’s, and I felt like a wisp in his firm clasp.
From Deering’s character he passed to the mentality of the artist in
general; “mentality” was a word to which he returned rather often, and I
think it must have been a new word in those days, for I have always
associated it peculiarly with Mr. Bannock. He sketched some of the
characteristics of the artist—“the artist as I see him,” he said; he mentioned
that possibly pride, “hard clean masculine pride,” was his dominant quality.
The lecture proceeded, Deering and I sat dumb before the speaker. Mr.
Bannock had a gesture to match his phrase; he scooped the air with his broad
palms, he sawed it with the edge of his hand, he riddled it with his outspread
fingers. His arms were perpetually in movement from the shoulder; they
withdrew to his side, they unfolded, length upon length, to ram home the
strongest points of his discourse. It was the professional skill of his
gesticulation, neither awkward nor yet spontaneous, that presently gave me a
clue to Mr. Bannock; or perhaps it was not only this, but something in his
talk about “the artist—the artist who aims at a certain poignancy of beauty—
a beauty that stabs”; anyhow I soon connected him with the stage, and I
wondered how a large-faced young American, with a strange brassy accent
in his speech, should find his occupation on the stage of Rome. Deering,
when the coils of oratory happened to loosen for a moment, enlightened me.
Mr. Bannock, it appeared, sang at the opera; Deering said so, and Mr.
Bannock gave a loud trumpet-snort of laughter at the words. “Sing? Come,
Mr. Deering, tell your friend another!” The snort expressed derisive irony, I
gathered. “I sing, oh I sing superbly—sometimes! You can come and hear
me at the opera ’most any evening—now and then! I shall be singing there
this very night—next year!” He was bitter, he was wounded by some thought
in his mind; his elbow was on the table, his chin on his hand, a sneer upon
the expanse of his face. I didn’t clearly understand, but Deering seemed to
have made a gaffe, and I felt awkward for half a minute. But it was all right;
Mr. Bannock was exalted by a grievance of which Deering had reminded
him. He rose to it with melancholy passion. I didn’t like to question him, and
for some time he was enigmatic, darkly ejaculating; but then he addressed
himself directly to me. He said that I might like to hear a story—it chanced
to be his story, but that didn’t matter; it would interest me as the story of an
artist, any artist in these days. He was engaged, he said, in an operatic
company, here in Rome, which had bound itself by many solemn promises;
he was to have the singing of several parts, small parts indeed, but parts in
which some people had thought him—well, satisfactory. He wouldn’t have
me rely on his word for it—he should like me to look at a paragraph or two
that had appeared in the press at home; he produced an immense pocket-
book and began to hand me papers, explaining that he didn’t do so from
conceit, but simply that I might see how matters stood. This company in
Rome had engaged him, and it was a fact, account for it as I might, that the
seven operas in which he was to have sung were never produced, were
withdrawn whenever they were announced, though he had good reason to
know that the public were asking for them. The company preferred to go
forcing on the public a couple of ancient pieces, played invariably to an
empty house; and why did they so prefer? He could tell me a story about
that, and about the woman who squalled the chief part in the blamed old
things. How often had he himself appeared in a month, did I suppose? Would
I guess? Twice—in what happened to be the two poorest parts of his
repertory. Well, he had told me the story for a curious illustration of the
treatment of art in these places; as a friend of Mr. Deering’s I was interested,
for sure, in anything that touched the artist, and the artist, poor devil, is a
man who feels when he is touched.
Yes, he feels—life cuts and hurts him; but then the leading strain in his
character, you remember, is his pride. “Hard clean—” but Mr. Bannock
bethought himself to vary the phrase this time; the pride of the man was now
stark, stern, steel-true. His pride was becoming more and more alliterative
when I happened to glance at Deering, who was silently occupied with a tiny
glass of some vivid pink liquor. From the shapeless face and cheap hat and
dirty collar of Mr. Bannock I looked round at Deering beside me, and I
received a singular shock. Deering bent over his pink potion with a languid
air, cultivating his flower-frailty much as usual; but I saw him in a new light,
and he appeared to me fresh and fine, wearing a peculiar wholesome
difference in the clack and racket of the marble saloon. We were allies, after
all; my sense of our partnership gushed suddenly warm behind my eyes.
Didn’t he make the aggrieved young barytone look dingy?—and I turned
back to Mr. Bannock with a perception quickened for an accent in his
manner, for a tone in his sonority, which I began to observe more
intelligently. I thought I saw that Mr. Bannock was a little shy of Deering, a
little impressed, like me, by his freshness and fineness.
But another young man had sidled his way towards us through the close-
ranked tables, and both my companions hailed him freely and drew him into
our party. This was a quick-eyed youth, slender and shabby; he greeted us
with a word or two jerked out of him briefly as he sat down, and then he saw
that I was a stranger and bounced upon his feet to shake hands with me
across the table. “Mr. Jaffrey,” said Deering, introducing him, “but you may
call him Jaff.” I liked the look of Jaff—he seemed very simple and bashful.
Deering summoned a waiter and gave an order; he treated Jaff as his own
property, with a peremptory kindness that sat well on him. “You shall drink
what I choose to give you,” he said, meeting Jaff’s expostulation. Jaff was
English—as English as Peckham Rye; and I began to think he might be a
poet, when Deering told me that he danced—danced at the “Eden” or the
“Wintergarden” or some such place, which I took to be a gaudy setting for a
youth so gently coloured as this. He was exhausted, tired to death; he drank
off the draught that Deering had prescribed, he sank back in his chair and
sighed; and then he brightened up with a stammer of apology and leaned
forward to take his part in our circle. Deering contemplated him pleasantly,
and mentioned that a dancer’s was a violent life. “I believe you,” said the
young man, with a sudden hard emphasis of disgust.
He then began to talk at a great rate; he poured out his tale in a flood,
twitching his head, snapping his eyes at us all in turn. Peckham Rye sounded
more and more clearly in his voice, which ran up in nervous squeaks as his
story culminated; his broken and bungled phrases were extremely unlike Mr.
Bannock’s. Mr. Bannock, by the way, seemed also inclined to be indulgent
and protective towards Jaff. “We all spoil him,” Mr. Bannock remarked to
me, patting Jaff on the shoulder. But Jaff didn’t notice him particularly, or
me either; as his story grew shriller and more urgent it was directed
especially at Deering, with questions and appeals to him which Deering
nodded a sympathetic reply to now and then. Rather a spoilt child, perhaps—
but I liked the young dancer, and his story soon touched my own sympathy
too. He was tired and hungry and discouraged under his eager friendliness;
he seemed to have been strained too tight by a life of ill luck. And then, as
he talked on, there appeared a sad little vein of ugliness in his candour; his
eagerness was streaked with bits of cruelty and cunning which he looked too
simple, too slight and light, to have imagined for himself. His story, I dare
say, didn’t greatly differ from the resentful Bannock’s; it was all about the
lying, cheating, swindling, bullying which reigned in the high places of the
“Olympia” or the “Trianon.” But Jaff was not so much resentful as tired and
bewildered; and he couldn’t meet the assault of life with any massive conceit
of himself, only with his poor little undigested fragments of bleak
experience.
Were these two, I wondered, fair examples of the bright company which
Deering had described? In that case it was less Roman and more Anglo-
Saxon than I had supposed, but certainly they drew the eye to a background
of life in Rome that was strange to me. The romance of Rome didn’t count
for much in the agitation of these two young aliens; they hadn’t noticed that
the city differed from another, except in the harshness of its behaviour to a
stranger. Here at once, then, was a pair of settlers in Rome who trod the
seven hills as though they were dust of the common world. Bannock and Jaff
hadn’t lived in books, and they might just as well have lived in Buffalo or
Wolverhampton for any gold they breathed in the Roman air. In twenty
minutes Deering had brought me a thousand miles from the Fountain of the
Tortoises, quietly dribbling its poetic prattle in the shadow of ancient
splendour. Life in the Via Nazionale had a harder edge to it, no doubt—and I
saw in a moment that life in the Via Nazionale was the real thing, in a kind
of a sense, for in truth it was much nearer to Rome of the Caesars than I had
ever been before, in all my meditations by quiet fountains. Consider,
imagine that you were suddenly dropped into the heart of imperial Rome,
with a friend to conduct you, Horace or Martial, as Deering had conducted
me—would you presently find yourself romancing among old ruins in the
sunset? No, you would be sitting among a crowd in a new-gilded saloon,
your elbows on a marble-topped table, and it is more than likely you might
be listening to a tale of grievance and indignation from a couple of alien
mountebanks, lately arrived in Rome and already wishing themselves back
in their own Iberia or Pannonia. Taken in this way by an intelligent
imagination, Via Nazionale would prove a profounder romance than the
Palatine Hill at shut of an April evening.
There I was, you see, back again in my literary yearnings! It seemed
impossible for me to take life plainly; I had to dress it up somehow in
romantic rags. I could feel the needle-point of Deering’s irony, if I should
tell him what I was already making of our session under the painted mirror.
“Can’t you live—isn’t life enough for you?”—he would blandly smile the
question at me, fingering the tiny slender cigarette that he lit after
swallowing his potion. I didn’t tell him, so I hadn’t to meet the question; but
I really might have asked, if it came to that, whether Bannock and Jaff, taken
plainly, furnished life enough for him. Of course they were only an
instalment—we should see more in good time. But meanwhile they
abounded, the two of them, in their exceedingly diverse styles; they
appeared intent on providing our friend (me they had quite forgotten) with as
much of the material of their distresses as they could squeeze into the hour.
They got considerably in each other’s way; each wanted the ear of Deering
to himself, but I noticed that Mr. Bannock, for all the power of his winding
coils, had by no means the best of it with Jaff’s more nimble and headlong
dash. Jaff, moreover, was favoured by Deering, and the pat of Mr. Bannock’s
hand on Jaff’s shoulder grew sharp and impatient. “Yes, yes, my dear man,”
he said, “we all have our little troubles—but I want to lay a case before you,
Mr. Deering, and I don’t want you should necessurrily think of it as mine,
though mine it be. I take the larger ground, and I ask you, Mr. Deering, to
follow me in proclaiming to God’s firmament that the tragedy of the artist,
poor devil, is a tragedy of five lawng——”
Indeed, indeed Mr. Bannock was impressed by Deering; he admired my
Deering’s fine white hand and expensive black suit. He courted Deering—I
could see it in the bend of his attention, I could hear it in the respectful catch
of his voice, when he listened and replied to some interpolation of Deering’s
in the midst of the long long tragedy. “Allow me to say, Mr. Deering, that
that is an exceedingly true observation.” And as for Deering himself, though
he found the style of the young barytone oppressive, he was evidently
drawing a trifle of satisfaction from his homage. And more and more I was
impressed myself by the charm of Deering’s graceful and well-appointed
superiority over his companions, over the scuffles and squabbles out of
which the poor young mountebanks appealed to him. I began to measure the
distance between the stage of the Trianon—where Jaff had been prancing
through long hours of rehearsal, so I gathered, bawled at all the time by “that
old beast Levissohn”—between Jaff’s Trianon and the Botticelli picture in
which Deering lived aloof. Bannock and Jaff, they were attracted to the
elegant leisure of the picture, and no wonder. There weren’t many Botticellis
in their world; it was to their credit that they made the most of one when
they had the chance. And Deering, though the dancer was shrill and the
singer ponderous, did most evidently appreciate their act of homage.
I was caught by a word of Jaff’s (he had managed to burst into the long
tragedy of the artist), something he said about expecting presently to see
“Edna—my sweetheart, you know.” He threw it out carelessly, and I was
struck by the casual felicity of his calling Edna his “sweetheart”—pleasing
old word! Edna was to join us immediately; she had been detained at the
Trianon (where she performed with Jaff) by “poor Madam Dowdeswell,”
who had been having a rare scrap with Levissohn, the beast. Edna would
turn up in a minute, and I was picturing Jaff’s sweetheart becomingly when
he spoilt the effect of the word by using it again—he said that Levissohn had
got a new sweetheart now, a fool of a Russian girl, and the prettiness went
out of the word as I perceived that it was technical, prescriptive, not a chance
flourish. Too sugared in its archaism for the cultured, it lived vulgarly in the
speech of Jaff and his circle—I noticed the oddity and disliked it. But I
looked with interest on Edna when she did presently appear, slipping
through the crowded room towards us like a lithe little fish. Jaff gathered her
in and handed her to our table with agreeable authority; they made an
appealing pair together, so childish and so English, and I could have wished
to snatch them up and carry them off, away from Madam Dowdeswell and
Levissohn, it I had known at all where else to put them. Edna was small and
restless, a scrap of bright quicksilver; she slid into the talk of our table with a
shimmer of playfulness, infantile nonsense and cajolery that refreshed us;
her thin cockney freedom danced over us all. She scrambled on to the plush
seat by Deering and flung an arm confidentially round his neck.
I never saw Jaff and Edna perform their turn at the Trianon, indeed I
never saw them again; I don’t know what became of them or whether they
managed to get what I soon found they ardently desired. They disappeared
into the void, so far as I was concerned, and all I can do for them is to
breathe a far-away blessing on their pretty young heads—young no longer
now, wherever they are. Their ambition at that time, as I soon discovered
when Edna began to talk seriously to Deering, was by hook or by crook to
reach America; they were going to have such brilliant times, such dashing
successes, if once they could get clear away from this old rotten Europe.
“Darling sweeting Deering,” said Edna—she crooned, and this was when she
began to be really serious, mellifluously in Deering’s ear; “you do love us,
don’t you?” She coaxed, she blandished him discreetly; and even as she
piped her childishness in her weak cockney vowel-tones she looked forlorn
and wan after all, a child over-tired and not far from tears. Poor thin-armed
Edna, she knew what she wanted and she wasted no time over laments and
grievances. “Deering dear,” she said, “if you love us, I’ll tell you a secret—
you’re a duck, and I’ve always said so.” Deering gleamed at her
sarcastically, and she shot out a lively grimace, an imitation of his look, with
a good deal of humour. “And so, ducky Deering, as you love us, I’ll tell you
another.” But she didn’t—she dropped suddenly grave and wistful, and sat
silent. I remember that quick shine of gravity through her play, and I hope
more than ever that she and Jaff have found their fortune, wherever it may
have awaited them, and enjoyed it.
Nobody else came to join us; but these three were enough to give me a
picture that abides with me, a picture in which Rome becomes a place of less
account than Wolverhampton, and a picture in which our good Deering
becomes, so strangely, a personage of weight and worth, a pillar of the
world. For you see what he stood for, what he was turned into, when he
entered his new Bohemia of the Via Nazionale, the unromantic Bohemia
which may remind me of imperial Rome, but certainly not of the Rome of
poor dear Hawthorne. Deering, seated between Bannock and Jaff, fluttered
over by pretty Edna, was changed into a man of substance, a man to whom
the struggling Bohemian stretched an appealing hand; for Deering had his
own firm ground above them—and he might step down into their midst on a
fine afternoon, but he could always get back again, if he would, for a
comfortable evening out of reach of the mountebanks. Did I see them drawn
by the charm of his elegance, the grace of his fair hand as he toyed with his
rose-tipped cigarette? Oh they felt it, no doubt, but they felt it for the mark
of his security in the great free expensive world; if Deering could trifle so
daintily with his pleasure it was because he commanded such resources—
such a power of connexions, of ramifying alliances, and of sound money too,
mark you, as like as not. I thought I understood very well. Not every day did
Bannock or Jaff or Edna meet with a Deering, school and college style,
Cambridge and Oxford bred, the real right thing—not every day, at least in
the wilderness of Rome, and never and nowhere at all, perhaps, a Deering so
indulgent and a Deering of that exquisite insight into the mentality of the
artist. Coax him and court him then, by all means—I don’t blame you.
Edna’s way was much the best, but of course she had the unfair privileges
of her sex. It wasn’t only that she could pat him on the head (most discreetly,
I must say) even among all those painted mirrors; but she could gush at him
with her nonsense instead of orating or lamenting, and then she could drop
suddenly silent and wan, lonely as a child in that chattering crowd. This last
effect, it is true, was uncalculated; she didn’t invent her swift and pallid
subsidence, poor Edna, or thoughtfully make use of it; but it was a part of
her feminine privilege, none the less, for of the trio of mountebanks Edna,
being a woman, was by far the oldest, and this last effect was the sign of her
age. She looked like a child—but Bannock and Jaff, beside her, were
children, fretful and bewildered and inexperienced; Edna was a hundred
years old in comparison, and her weariness was that of a grown-up human
being, far beyond the petulant fierce resentments of a child. She was a
woman, she had the privilege of maturity in her power to taste the flatness
and dreariness of the scuffle, while the men went on nagging and beating
their heads against its injustice. And so, though her way seemed roundabout,
she reached the point long before they did; with the echo of her nonsense
still in the air she had caught Deering into an earnest discussion, subdued to
an undertone which warned off the rest of us, and I could hear her explaining
and developing her scheme, laying it before Deering in quick nervous
phrases while she absently fingered the objects on the table. That was Edna’s
way—and I don’t know at all what her scheme was or how she intended that
Deering should help her, but I think she achieved her purpose.
Jaff meanwhile was babbling to Bannock about the glory of America, or
rather he was asking a great many questions about it and never leaving
Bannock the time to unroll his answers. The barytone was properly ready to
exalt his country if he were given the chance, and I noticed that the big
pocket-book was again in his hand. But he was placed in a difficulty; for the
pocket-book showed how America honours the artist—I caught a few words
as he opened it, “By God, that country loves a Man, but she worships an
Artist”—and yet he was not as eager as you might have expected to return
home for her delight. The young singer, he had no plan of going back again;
instead he had a very clear-cut design of conquest on the stage of Europe, a
design of which he managed to expose the opening section (it took us in a
bound as far as Cracow, I remember); and Jaff’s urgent desire to be fed with
the report of Buffalo, her sympathy and bounty, did a little embarrass the
home-raised artist of that place. But Jaff was enthusiastic enough for two, for
twenty; he spun to and fro in his imagination while Bannock was finding the
first of his clippings; and for my part I sat and watched them, entirely
forgotten by the whole party, and felt like the lady in Comus, considerably
out of it.
The silver chirrup of Edna’s laughter rang forth again at last, her grave-
eyed colloquy was at an end. She slipped from her place on the sofa, seized
Jaff and plucked him out of our circle, kissed her hand to us all and danced
him off through the crowd—and that was the last I saw of the mercurial pair.
Good luck to them, I say; and I don’t withhold my blessing from the solemn
Bannock, who now evidently intended to settle down firmly to his grave talk
with Deering, the distraction of the other young people having cleared out of
his way. He would have preferred that I too should take my departure; but
Deering held me back when I rose, and we sat on together, the three of us,
for a very long hour. I relieved the time with more pink potions, while
Bannock circled the globe through the stages of his campaign. I was numb
and dumb as before; but Deering held out bravely, wagging his head with
judicial comment as the story marched over kingdom and continent. One
point alone I noted, one conclusion I drew; whatever it cost him, Deering
occupied a position in the Via Nazionale to which he was not indifferent. He
owed it to everything that he supposed himself to have shed and cast away,
finally, when he put on his broad-brimmed hat and eschewed the English
ghetto; he owed his position to his value (poor Deering!) as a substantial and
respectable Briton. But why dwell on a painful subject? Deering had been
welcomed into a society that included an opera-singer and two dancers, he
was at home and on his feet there; and which of the respectable Britons at
that moment strolling on the Pincio, glaring at each other and listening to the
band, could imaginably say the same?
III. PIAZZA DELLA CANCELLERIA