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Had the ladies been Neapolitans, Emilio an
Italian, he would have felt on sure ground. But in England, so he had
heard, there is a fantastic, cold, sexless something called friendship
that can exist between unrelated man and woman.
"Don Emilio writes much," he said, with less than his usual alacrity.
"When one goes to see him he has always a pen in his hand."
He tried to speak of Emilio with complete detachment, but could not
resist adding:
"When one is an old man one likes to sit, one cannot be forever
running to and fro. One gets tired, I suppose."
There was marked satire in the accent with which he said the last
words. And the shrug of his shoulders was an almost audible "What can
I know of that?"
"Monsieur Emile writes because he has a great brain, not because he
has a tired body," said Vere, with sudden warmth.
Her mother was looking at her earnestly.
"Oh, Signorina, I do not mean-- But for a man to be always shut up,"
began the Marchesino, "it is not life.


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