How could she invite him?  It had gone on so long, their estrangement, such years; she would hardly know what words to use; and besides, he would not come.  Why should he come?  He didn’t care about being with her.  What could they talk about?  Between them was the barrier of his work and her religion.  She could not—­how could she, believing as she did in purity, in responsibility for the effect of one’s actions on other—­bear his work, bear living by it; and he she knew, had at first resented and then been merely bored by her religion.  He had let her slip away; he had given her up; he no longer minded; he accepted her religion indifferently, as a settled fact.  Both it and she—­Rose’s mind, becoming more luminous in the clear light of April at San Salvatore, suddenly saw the truth—­bored him.

Naturally when she saw this, when that morning it flashed upon her for the first time, she did not like it; she liked it so little that for a space the whole beauty of Italy was blotted out.  What was to be done about it?  She could not give up believing in good and not liking evil, and it must be evil to live entirely on the proceeds of adulteries, however dead and distinguished they were.  Besides, if she did, if she sacrificed her whole past, her bringing up, her work for the last ten years, would she bore him less?  Rose felt right down at her very roots that if you have once thoroughly bored somebody it is next to impossible to unbore him.  Once a bore always a bore—­ certainly, she thought, to the person originally bored.

Then, thought she, looking out to sea through eyes grown misty, better cling to her religion.  It was better—­she hardly noticed the reprehensibleness of her thought—­than nothing.  But oh, she wanted to cling to something tangible, to love something living, something that one could hold against one’s heart, that one could see and touch and do things for.  If her poor baby hadn’t died . . . babies didn’t get bored with one, it took them a long while to grow up and find one out.  And perhaps one’s baby never did find one out; perhaps one would always be to it, however old and bearded it grew, somebody special, somebody different from every one else, and if for no other reason, precious in that one could never be repeated.

Sitting with dim eyes looking out to sea she felt an extraordinary yearning to hold something of her very own tight to her bosom.  Rose was slender, and as reserved in figure as in character, yet she felt a queer sensation of—­how could she describe it?—­bosom.  There was something about San Salvatore that made her feel all bosom.  She wanted to gather to her bosom, to comfort and protect, soothing the dear head that should lie on it with softest strokings and murmurs of love.  Frederick, Frederick’s child—­come to her, pillowed on her, because they were unhappy, because they had been hurt. . .  They would need her then, if they had been hurt; they would let themselves be loved then, if they were unhappy.