"
"First, Harriet, I shall settle you at the Stella
d'Italia, in the comfort that befits your sex and
disposition. Then I shall make myself some tea. After tea
I shall take a book into Santa Deodata's, and read there.
It is always fresh and cool."
The martyred Harriet exclaimed, "I'm not clever,
Philip. I don't go in for it, as you know. But I know
what's rude. And I know what's wrong."
"Meaning--?"
"You!" she shouted, bouncing on the cushions of the
legno and startling all the fleas. "What's the good of
cleverness if a man's murdered a woman?"
"Harriet, I am hot. To whom do you refer?"
"He. Her. If you don't look out he'll murder you. I
wish he would."
"Tut tut, tutlet! You'd find a corpse extraordinarily
inconvenient." Then he tried to be less aggravating. "I
heartily dislike the fellow, but we know he didn't murder
her. In that letter, though she said a lot, she never said
he was physically cruel."
"He has murdered her. The things he did--things one
can't even mention--"
"Things which one must mention if one's to talk at all.
And things which one must keep in their proper place.
Because he was unfaithful to his wife, it doesn't follow
that in every way he's absolutely vile." He looked at the
city. It seemed to approve his remark.
"It's the supreme test. The man who is unchivalrous to
a woman--"
"Oh, stow it! Take it to the Back Kitchen. It's no
more a supreme test than anything else. The Italians never
were chivalrous from the first.
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