His face was in profile, and its beautiful contours drove
artfully against the misty green of the opposing hills.
"Posing!" said Miss Abbott to herself. "A born artist's model."
"Mr. Herriton called yesterday," she began, "but you
were out."
He started an elaborate and graceful explanation. He
had gone for the day to Poggibonsi. Why had the Herritons
not written to him, so that he could have received them
properly? Poggibonsi would have done any day; not but what
his business there was fairly important. What did she
suppose that it was?
Naturally she was not greatly interested. She had not
come from Sawston to guess why he had been to Poggibonsi.
She answered politely that she had no idea, and returned to
her mission.
"But guess!" he persisted, clapping the balustrade
between his hands.
She suggested, with gentle sarcasm, that perhaps he had
gone to Poggibonsi to find something to do.
He intimated that it was not as important as all that.
Something to do--an almost hopeless quest! "E manca
questo!" He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, to
indicate that he had no money. Then he sighed, and blew
another smoke-ring. Miss Abbott took heart and turned
diplomatic.
"This house," she said, "is a large house."
"Exactly," was his gloomy reply. "And when my poor wife
died--" He got up, went in, and walked across the landing to
the reception-room door, which he closed reverently. Then
he shut the door of the living-room with his foot, returned
briskly to his seat, and continued his sentence.
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