And meanwhile the beautiful golden days were dropping gently from the second week one by one, equal in beauty with those of the first, and the scent of beanfields in flower on the hillside behind the village came across to San Salvatore whenever the air moved.  In the garden that second week the poet’s eyed narcissus disappeared out the long grass at the edge of the zigzag path, and wild gladiolus, slender and rose-coloured, came in their stead, white pinks bloomed in the borders, filing the whole place with their smoky-sweet smell, and a bush nobody had noticed burst into glory and fragrance, and it was a purple lilac bush.  Such a jumble of spring and summer was not to be believed in, except by those who dwelt in those gardens.  Everything 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.