Philip looked
away, winking at times himself. It was as if they were
travelling with the whole world's sorrow, as if all the
mystery, all the persistency of woe were gathered to a
single fount. The roads were now coated with mud, and the
carriage went more quietly but not less swiftly, sliding by
long zigzags into the night. He knew the landmarks pretty
well: here was the crossroad to Poggibonsi; and the last
view of Monteriano, if they had light, would be from here.
Soon they ought to come to that little wood where violets
were so plentiful in spring. He wished the weather had not
changed; it was not cold, but the air was extraordinarily
damp. It could not be good for the child.
"I suppose he breathes, and all that sort of thing?" he said.
"Of course," said Harriet, in an angry whisper. "You've
started him again. I'm certain he was asleep. I do wish
you wouldn't talk; it makes me so nervous."
"I'm nervous too. I wish he'd scream. It's too
uncanny. Poor Gino! I'm terribly sorry for Gino."
"Are you?"
"Because he's weak--like most of us. He doesn't know
what he wants. He doesn't grip on to life. But I like that
man, and I'm sorry for him."
Naturally enough she made no answer.
"You despise him, Harriet, and you despise me. But you
do us no good by it. We fools want some one to set us on
our feet. Suppose a really decent woman had set up Gino--I
believe Caroline Abbott might have done it--mightn't he have
been another man?"
"Philip," she interrupted, with an attempt at
nonchalance, "do you happen to have those matches handy? We
might as well look at the baby again if you have.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182