morning.’
‘What!’—cried Manisty—‘Did she expect a conventicle in the Pope’s own town!’
For Marinata owned a Papal villa and had once been a favourite summer residence of the Popes.
‘No—but she thought she might have gone into Rome, and she missed the trains. I found her wandering about the salon looking quite starved and restless.’
‘Those are hungers that pass!—My heart is hard.—There—your bell is stopping. Eleanor!—I wonder why you go to these functions?’
He turned to look at her, his fine eye sharp and a little mocking.
‘Because I like it.’
‘You like the thought of it. But when you get there, the reality won’t please you at all. There will be the dirty floor, and the bad music,—and the little priest intoning through his nose—and the scuffling boys,—and the abominable pictures—and the tawdry altars. Much better stay at home—and help me praise the Holy Roman Church from a safe distance!’
‘What a hypocrite people would think you, if they could hear you talk like that!’ she said, flushing.
‘Then they would think it unjustly.—I don’t mean to be my own dupe, that’s all.’
‘The dupes are the happiest,’ she said in a low voice. ‘There is something between them, and—Ah! well, never mind!’—
She stood still a moment, looking across the lake, her hands resting lightly on the stone balustrade of the terrace. Manisty watched her in silence, occasionally puffing at his cigarette.
‘Well, I shall be back very soon,’ she said, gathering up her prayer-book and her parasol. ‘Will it then be our duty to take Miss Foster for a walk?’
‘Why not leave her to my aunt?’
She passed him with a little nod of farewell. Presently, through the openings of the balustrade, Manisty could watch her climbing the village street with her dress held high above her daintily shod feet, a crowd of children asking for a halfpenny following at her heels. Presently he saw her stop irresolutely, open a little velvet bag that hung from her waist and throw a shower of
soldi
among the children. They swooped upon it, fighting and shrieking.
Mrs. Burgoyne looked at them half smiling, half repentant, shook her head and walked on.
‘Eleanor—you coward!’ said Manisty, throwing himself back in his chair with a silent laugh.
Under his protection, or his aunt’s, as he knew well, Mrs. Burgoyne could walk past those little pests of children, even the poor armless and legless horrors on the way to Albano, and give a firm adhesion to Miss Manisty’s Scotch doctrines on the subject of begging. But by herself, she could not refuse—she could not bear to be scowled on—even for a moment. She must yield—must give herself the luxury of being liked. It was all of a piece with her weakness towards servants and porters and cabmen—her absurdities in the way of tips and gifts—the kindnesses she had been showing during the last three days to the American girl. Too kind! Insipidity lay that way.
Manisty returned to his newspapers. When he had finished them he got up and began to pace the stone terrace, his great head bent forward as usual, as though the weight of it were too much for the shoulders. The newspapers had made him restless again, had dissipated the good humour of the morning, born perhaps of the mere April warmth and
bien etre
.
‘Idling in a villa—with two women’—he said to himself, bitterly—‘while all these things are happening.’
For the papers were full of news—of battles lost and won, on questions with which he had been at one time intimately concerned. Once or twice in the course of these many columns he had found his own name, his own opinion quoted, but only as belonging to a man who had left the field—a man of the past—politically dead.
As he stood there with his hands upon his sides, looking out over the Alban Lake, and its broom-clad sides, a great hunger for London swept suddenly upon him, for the hot scent of its streets, for its
‘What!’—cried Manisty—‘Did she expect a conventicle in the Pope’s own town!’
For Marinata owned a Papal villa and had once been a favourite summer residence of the Popes.
‘No—but she thought she might have gone into Rome, and she missed the trains. I found her wandering about the salon looking quite starved and restless.’
‘Those are hungers that pass!—My heart is hard.—There—your bell is stopping. Eleanor!—I wonder why you go to these functions?’
He turned to look at her, his fine eye sharp and a little mocking.
‘Because I like it.’
‘You like the thought of it. But when you get there, the reality won’t please you at all. There will be the dirty floor, and the bad music,—and the little priest intoning through his nose—and the scuffling boys,—and the abominable pictures—and the tawdry altars. Much better stay at home—and help me praise the Holy Roman Church from a safe distance!’
‘What a hypocrite people would think you, if they could hear you talk like that!’ she said, flushing.
‘Then they would think it unjustly.—I don’t mean to be my own dupe, that’s all.’
‘The dupes are the happiest,’ she said in a low voice. ‘There is something between them, and—Ah! well, never mind!’—
She stood still a moment, looking across the lake, her hands resting lightly on the stone balustrade of the terrace. Manisty watched her in silence, occasionally puffing at his cigarette.
‘Well, I shall be back very soon,’ she said, gathering up her prayer-book and her parasol. ‘Will it then be our duty to take Miss Foster for a walk?’
‘Why not leave her to my aunt?’
She passed him with a little nod of farewell. Presently, through the openings of the balustrade, Manisty could watch her climbing the village street with her dress held high above her daintily shod feet, a crowd of children asking for a halfpenny following at her heels. Presently he saw her stop irresolutely, open a little velvet bag that hung from her waist and throw a shower of
soldi
among the children. They swooped upon it, fighting and shrieking.
Mrs. Burgoyne looked at them half smiling, half repentant, shook her head and walked on.
‘Eleanor—you coward!’ said Manisty, throwing himself back in his chair with a silent laugh.
Under his protection, or his aunt’s, as he knew well, Mrs. Burgoyne could walk past those little pests of children, even the poor armless and legless horrors on the way to Albano, and give a firm adhesion to Miss Manisty’s Scotch doctrines on the subject of begging. But by herself, she could not refuse—she could not bear to be scowled on—even for a moment. She must yield—must give herself the luxury of being liked. It was all of a piece with her weakness towards servants and porters and cabmen—her absurdities in the way of tips and gifts—the kindnesses she had been showing during the last three days to the American girl. Too kind! Insipidity lay that way.
Manisty returned to his newspapers. When he had finished them he got up and began to pace the stone terrace, his great head bent forward as usual, as though the weight of it were too much for the shoulders. The newspapers had made him restless again, had dissipated the good humour of the morning, born perhaps of the mere April warmth and
bien etre
.
‘Idling in a villa—with two women’—he said to himself, bitterly—‘while all these things are happening.’
For the papers were full of news—of battles lost and won, on questions with which he had been at one time intimately concerned. Once or twice in the course of these many columns he had found his own name, his own opinion quoted, but only as belonging to a man who had left the field—a man of the past—politically dead.
As he stood there with his hands upon his sides, looking out over the Alban Lake, and its broom-clad sides, a great hunger for London swept suddenly upon him, for the hot scent of its streets, for its
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