" Their intimacy
had been very rapid, but he too hoped that it would not
shift. He believed that he understood her, and that she, by
now, had seen the worst of him. What if after a long
time--if after all--he flushed like a boy as he looked after
her carriage.
He went into the dining-room to look for Harriet.
Harriet was not to be found. Her bedroom, too, was empty.
All that was left of her was the purple prayer-book which
lay open on the bed. Philip took it up aimlessly, and
saw--"Blessed be the Lord my God who teacheth my hands to war
and my fingers to fight." He put the book in his pocket,
and began to brood over more profitable themes.
Santa Deodata gave out half past eight. All the luggage
was on, and still Harriet had not appeared. "Depend upon
it," said the landlady, "she has gone to Signor Carella's to
say good-bye to her little nephew." Philip did not think it
likely. They shouted all over the house and still there was
no Harriet. He began to be uneasy. He was helpless without
Miss Abbott; her grave, kind face had cheered him
wonderfully, even when it looked displeased. Monteriano was
sad without her; the rain was thickening; the scraps of
Donizetti floated tunelessly out of the wineshops, and of
the great tower opposite he could only see the base, fresh
papered with the advertisements of quacks.
A man came up the street with a note. Philip read,
"Start at once. Pick me up outside the gate. Pay the
bearer. H.
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