nd
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