"When will you see him again?" she asked. They were
standing together in the corridor of the train, slowly
ascending out of Italy towards the San Gothard tunnel.
"I hope next spring. Perhaps we shall paint Siena red
for a day or two with some of the new wife's money. It was
one of the arguments for marrying her."
"He has no heart," she said severely. "He does not
really mind about the child at all."
"No; you're wrong. He does. He is unhappy, like the
rest of us. But he doesn't try to keep up appearances as we
do. He knows that the things that have made him happy once
will probably make him happy again--"
"He said he would never be happy again."
"In his passion. Not when he was calm. We English say
it when we are calm--when we do not really believe it any
longer. Gino is not ashamed of inconsistency. It is one of
the many things I like him for."
"Yes; I was wrong. That is so."
"He's much more honest with himself than I am,"
continued Philip, "and he is honest without an effort and
without pride. But you, Miss Abbott, what about you? Will
you be in Italy next spring?"
"No."
"I'm sorry. When will you come back, do you think?"
"I think never."
"For whatever reason?" He stared at her as if she were
some monstrosity.
"Because I understand the place. There is no need."
"Understand Italy!" he exclaimed.
"Perfectly."
"Well, I don't. And I don't understand you," he
murmured to himself, as he paced away from her up the
corridor.
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