erything
seemed to be out together--all the things crowded into one month which
in England are spread penuriously over six. Even primroses were found
one day by Mrs. Wilkins in a cold corner up in the hills; and when she
brought them down to the geraniums and heliotrope of San Salvatore they
looked quite shy.

Chapter 17

On the first day of the third week Rose wrote to Frederick.

In case she should again hesitate and not post the letter, she
gave it to Domenico to post; for if she did not write now there would
be no time left at all. Half the month at San Salvatore was over.
Even if Frederick started directly he got the letter, which of course
he wouldn't be able to do, what with packing and passport, besides not
being in a hurry to come, he couldn't arrive for five days.

Having done it, Rose wished she hadn't. He wouldn't come. He
wouldn't bother to answer. And if he did answer, it would just be
giving some reason which was not true, and about being too busy to get
away; and all that had been got by writing to him would be that she
would be more unhappy than before.

What things one did when one was idle. This resurrection of
Frederick, or rather this attempt to resurrect him, what was it but the
result of having nothing whatever to do? She wished she had never come
away on a holiday. What did she want with holidays? Work was her
salvation; work was the only thing that protected one, that kept one
steady and one's values true. At home in Hampstead, absorbed and busy,
she had managed to get over Frederick, thinking of him latterly only
with the gentle melancholy with which one thinks of some one once loved
but long since dead; and now this place, idleness in this soft place,
had thrown her back to the wretched state she had climbed so carefully
out of years ago. Why, if Frederick did come she would only bore him.
Hadn't she seen in a flash quite soon after getting to San Salvatore
that that was really what kept him away from her? And why should she
suppose that now, after such a long estrangement, she would be able not
to bore him, be able to do anything but stand before him like a
tongue-tied idiot, with all the fingers of her spirit turned into
thumbs? Besides, what a hopeless position, to have as it were to
beseech: Please wait a little--please don't be impatient--I think
perhaps I shan't be a bore presently.

A thousand times a day Rose wished she had let Frederick alone.
Lotty, who a