“I did not hear the invitation.”

“It was arranged at the table:  you and I were separated—­cruelly, I told her:  she declared that we see enough of one another, and that it was good for me that we should be separated; neither of which is true.  I may not have known what is the best for me:  I do know what is good.  If in my younger days I egregiously erred, that, taken of itself alone, is, assuming me to have sense and feeling, the surer proof of present wisdom.  I can testify in person that wisdom is pain.  If pain is to add to wisdom, let me suffer!  Do you approve of that, Laetitia?”

“It is well said.”

“It is felt.  Those who themselves have suffered should know the benefit of the resolution.”

“One may have suffered so much as to wish only for peace.”

“True:  but you! have you?”

“It would be for peace, if I prayed for any earthly gift.”

Sir Willoughby dropped a smile on her.  “I mentioned the Pope’s parti-coloured body-guard just now.  In my youth their singular attire impressed me.  People tell me they have been re-uniformed:  I am sorry.  They remain one of my liveliest recollections of the Eternal City.  They affected my sense of humour, always alert in me, as you are aware.  We English have humour.  It is the first thing struck in us when we land on the Continent:  our risible faculties are generally active all through the tour.  Humour, or the clash of sense with novel examples of the absurd, is our characteristic.  I do not condescend to boisterous displays of it.  I observe, and note the people’s comicalities for my correspondence.  But you have read my letters—­most of them, if not all?”

“Many of them.”

“I was with you then!—­I was about to say—­that Swiss-guard reminded me—­you have not been in Italy.  I have constantly regretted it.  You are the very woman, you have the soul for Italy.  I know no other of whom I could say it, with whom I should not feel that she was out of place, discordant with me.  Italy and Laetitia! often have I joined you together.  We shall see.  I begin to have hopes.  Here you have literally stagnated.  Why, a dinner-party refreshes you!  What would not travel do, and that heavenly climate!  You are a reader of history and poetry.  Well, poetry!  I never yet saw the poetry that expressed the tenth part of what I feel in the presence of beauty and magnificence, and when I really meditate—­profoundly.  Call me a positive mind.  I feel:  only I feel too intensely for poetry.  By the nature of it, poetry cannot be sincere.  I will have sincerity.  Whatever touches our emotions should be spontaneous, not a craft.  I know you are in favour of poetry.  You would win me, if any one could.  But history! there I am with you.  Walking over ruins:  at night:  the arches of the solemn black amphitheatre pouring moonlight on us—­the moonlight of Italy!”

“You would not laugh there, Sir Willoughby?” said Laetitia, rousing herself from a stupor of apprehensive amazement, to utter something and realize actual circumstances.