"
It is not good to see your wife crying when she
writes--especially if you are conscious that, on the whole,
your treatment of her has been reasonable and kind. It is
not good, when you accidentally look over her shoulder, to
see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her
fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression
that you are engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her.
Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many
things can be arranged. The postman was a friend of Gino's,
and Mr. Kingcroft never got his letter.
So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the
autumn lay in bed. Gino was distracted. She knew why; he
wanted a son. He could talk and think of nothing else. His
one desire was to become the father of a man like himself,
and it held him with a grip he only partially understood,
for it was the first great desire, the first great passion
of his life. Falling in love was a mere physical
triviality, like warm sun or cool water, beside this divine
hope of immortality: "I continue." He gave candles to Santa
Deodata, for he was always religious at a crisis, and
sometimes he went to her himself and prayed the crude
uncouth demands of the simple. Impetuously he summoned all
his relatives back to bear him company in his time of need,
and Lilia saw strange faces flitting past her in the
darkened room.
"My love!" he would say, "my dearest Lilia! Be calm. I
have never loved any one but you.
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