For romance had come back to
Italy; there were no cads in her; she was beautiful,
courteous, lovable, as of old. And Miss Abbott--she, too,
was beautiful in her way, for all her gaucheness and
conventionality. She really cared about life, and tried to
live it properly. And Harriet--even Harriet tried.
This admirable change in Philip proceeds from nothing
admirable, and may therefore provoke the gibes of the
cynical. But angels and other practical people will accept
it reverently, and write it down as good.
"The view from the Rocca (small gratuity) is finest at
sunset," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
"And he never mentioned the baby once," Miss Abbott
repeated. But she had returned to the window, and again her
finger pursued the delicate curves. He watched her in
silence, and was more attracted to her than he had ever been
before. She really was the strangest mixture.
"The view from the Rocca--wasn't it fine?"
"What isn't fine here?" she answered gently, and then
added, "I wish I was Harriet," throwing an extraordinary
meaning into the words.
"Because Harriet--?"
She would not go further, but he believed that she had
paid homage to the complexity of life. For her, at all
events, the expedition was neither easy nor jolly. Beauty,
evil, charm, vulgarity, mystery--she also acknowledged this
tangle, in spite of herself. And her voice thrilled him
when she broke silence with "Mr. Herriton--come here--look at
this!"
She removed a pile of plates from the Gothic window, and
they leant out of it.
Pages:
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131