For our
vanity is such that we hold our own characters immutable,
and we are slow to acknowledge that they have changed, even
for the better.
Citizens came out for a little stroll before dinner.
Some of them stood and gazed at the advertisements on the tower.
"Surely that isn't an opera-bill?" said Miss Abbott.
Philip put on his pince-nez. " 'Lucia di Lammermoor.
By the Master Donizetti. Unique representation. This evening.'
"But is there an opera? Right up here?"
"Why, yes. These people know how to live. They would
sooner have a thing bad than not have it at all. That is
why they have got to have so much that is good. However bad
the performance is tonight, it will be alive. Italians
don't love music silently, like the beastly Germans. The
audience takes its share--sometimes more."
"Can't we go?"
He turned on her, but not unkindly. "But we're here to
rescue a child!"
He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure and
the light went out of her face, and she became again Miss
Abbott of Sawston--good, oh, most undoubtedly good, but most
appallingly dull. Dull and remorseful: it is a deadly
combination, and he strove against it in vain till he was
interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door.
They started as guiltily as if they had been flirting.
Their interview had taken such an unexpected course. Anger,
cynicism, stubborn morality--all had ended in a feeling of
good-will towards each other and towards the city which had
received them.
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