It was a magnificent summer’s day, one of those days in which the whole glory of the south fills heaven and earth and air, and the stupendous tide of universal life pours into every sense, to very overflowing, as the ocean fills its world-wide bed.  And the world was ripe and ripening, the corn and wheat, and olive and vine, and fruit and flower and tree, from the rich valley below, up the rough hills, as far as sun and soil and rain could draw the dress of beauty over the mountains’ grand bare strength.  Down there, in the vast garden, the hot air quivered with sheer living; above, the solemn peaks faced God in the still sun.  The breath of the high breeze, between earth and heaven, blew upon Veronica’s cheek.

They looked at each other and sat silent, and looked again and smiled, both happy in those ever-written, never-spoken thoughts which were theirs together, both fearing speech as a common thing which must jar and shake them rudely back to their other selves, which were formal, and constrained, and not at all intimate.

Gianluca lay quite still in his deep chair, his white hands motionless upon the edge of the grey shawl which was thrown over his knees.  Suddenly, Veronica, sitting close and opposite to him, bent far forward and gently laid her hand upon one of his.  She smiled.

“I am glad that you are here,” she said simply, looking into his face.

His own brightened, and the blue eyes grew dark and tender, while her hand lingered a second.

“How good you are to me!” he exclaimed, in a low voice.  “How endlessly good!”

She was still smiling as she withdrew her hand and leaned back in her chair once more.  A little pause followed, during which both were quite happy, in different ways—­he, perhaps, in all ways at once, and she, because she felt she had broken through something like a sheet of ice by a mere gesture and half a dozen words, when it had seemed so hard to do.

“No,” she said thoughtfully, at last.  “It is not a question of goodness.  I am natural—­that is all.  I do not believe that many people are.  And we had got into an absurd position, you and I!” She laughed, looking at him.  “We could write, but we could not speak.  We each knew what the other was thinking of, and yet, somehow, neither of us could say what we thought.  Was it not as I say?”

“Yes.”  Gianluca laughed, too, very faintly because he was weak, though he was so happy.

“It could not last,” Veronica continued, “and I am glad it is over.  For it is over, is it not?  We can talk quite frankly now.  Last night, for instance.  I am sure I know what you were thinking about.”

“About Taquisara?  At dinner?”

“Of course.  He is so much more agreeable than I expected, and I am so glad that I made him stay.  And then, last night, too—­did you see how your mother looked at the serving-woman, expecting to see the butler?  It was so natural.  It was just what I should have done in her place, and I could hardly keep from laughing.”