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Page 59
"What a fine child, Signor Carella. And how nice of you
to talk to it. Though I see that the ungrateful little
fellow is asleep! Seven months? No, eight; of course
eight. Still, he is a remarkably fine child for his age."
Italian is a bad medium for condescension. The
patronizing words came out gracious and sincere, and he
smiled with pleasure.
"You must not stand. Let us sit on the loggia, where it
is cool. I am afraid the room is very untidy," he added,
with the air of a hostess who apologizes for a stray thread
on the drawing-room carpet. Miss Abbott picked her way to
the chair. He sat near her, astride the parapet, with one
foot in the loggia and the other dangling into the view.
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. "When my
poor wife died I thought of having my relatives to live
here. My father wished to give up his practice at Empoli;
my mother and sisters and two aunts were also willing. But
it was impossible. They have their ways of doing things,
and when I was younger I was content with them. But now I
am a man. I have my own ways. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I do," said Miss Abbott, thinking of her own dear
father, whose tricks and habits, after twenty-five years
spent in their company, were beginning to get on her
nerves. She remembered, though, that she was not here to
sympathize with Gino--at all events, not to show that she
sympathized. She also reminded herself that he was not
worthy of sympathy. "It is a large house," she repeated.
"Immense; and the taxes! But it will be better
when--Ah! but you have never guessed why I went to
Poggibonsi--why it was that I was out when he called."
"I cannot guess, Signor Carella. I am here on business."
"But try."
"I cannot; I hardly know you."
"But we are old friends," he said, "and your approval
will be grateful to me. You gave it me once before. Will
you give it now?"
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