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Page 79
"Thank him, please, when you write," said Miss Abbott,
"and give him my kindest regards."
"Indeed I will." He was surprised that she could slide
away from the man so easily. For his own part, he was bound
by ties of almost alarming intimacy. Gino had the southern
knack of friendship. In the intervals of business he would
pull out Philip's life, turn it inside out, remodel it, and
advise him how to use it for the best. The sensation was
pleasant, for he was a kind as well as a skilful operator.
But Philip came away feeling that he had not a secret corner
left. In that very letter Gino had again implored him, as a
refuge from domestic difficulties, "to marry Miss Abbott,
even if her dowry is small." And how Miss Abbott herself,
after such tragic intercourse, could resume the conventions
and send calm messages of esteem, was more than he could
understand.
"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. By this time he loved her very much, and he could
not bear to be puzzled. He had reached love by the
spiritual path: her thoughts and her goodness and her
nobility had moved him first, and now her whole body and all
its gestures had become transfigured by them. The beauties
that are called obvious--the beauties of her hair and her
voice and her limbs--he had noticed these last; Gino, who
never traversed any path at all, had commended them
dispassionately to his friend.
Why was he so puzzling? He had known so much about her
once--what she thought, how she felt, the reasons for her
actions. And now he only knew that he loved her, and all
the other knowledge seemed passing from him just as he
needed it most. Why would she never come to Italy again?
Why had she avoided himself and Gino ever since the evening
that she had saved their lives? The train was nearly
empty. Harriet slumbered in a compartment by herself. He
must ask her these questions now, and he returned quickly to
her down the corridor.
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