ents might relieve him from his ridiculous perplexity of feeling.
Besides though her voice struck emotion, she herself was
unimpressionable. "Cold by nature," he said; looking at the unkindled
fire. She shook hands like a boy. If her fingers were touched and
retained, they continued to be fingers for as long as you pleased.
Murmurs and whispers passed by her like the breeze. She appeared also to
have no enthusiasm for her Art, so that not even there could Wilfrid find
common ground. Italy, however, he discovered to be the subject that made
her light up. Of Italy he would speak frequently, and with much simulated
fervour.

"Mr. Pericles is going to take me there," said Emilia. "He told me to
keep it secret. I have no secrets from my friends. I am to learn in the
academy at Milan."

"Would you not rather let me take you?"

"Not quite." She shook her head. "No; because you do not understand music
as he does. And are you as rich? I cost a great deal of money even for
eating alone. But you will be glad when you hear me when I come back. Do
you hear that nightingale? It must be a nightingale."

She listened. "What things he makes us feel!"

Bending her head, she walked on silently. Wilfrid, he knew not why, had
got a sudden hunger for all the days of her life. He caught her hand and,
drawing her to a garden seat, said: "Come; now tell me all about yourself
before I knew you. Do you mind?"

"I'll tell you anything you want to hear," said Emilia.

He enjoined her to begin from the beginning.

"Everything about myself?" she asked.

"Everything. I have your permission to smoke?"

Emilia smiled. "I wish I had some Italian cigars to give you. My father
sometimes has plenty given to him."

Wilfrid did not contemplate his havannah with less favour.

"Now," said Emilia, taking a last sniff of the flowers before
surrendering her nostril to the invading smoke. She looked at the scene
fronting her under a blue sky with slow flocks of clouds: "How I like
this!" she exclaimed. "I almost forget that I long for Italy, here."

Beyond a plot of flowers, a gold-green meadow dipped to a ridge of gorse
bordered by dark firs and the tips of greenest larches.

CHAPTER VI

"My father is one of the most wonderful men in the whole world!"

Wilfrid lifted an eyelid.

"He is one of the first-violins at the Italian Opera!"

The gallant cornet's critical appreciation of this impressive
announcement was expressed in a spiral ebu