“What am I to do about it?”

“Do nothing.  Or ask me!”

“Come!” cried Gino, springing up.  “She will be quite pleased.”

The dashing young fellow coloured crimson.  “Of course I was only joking.”

“I know.  But she wants me to take my friends.  Come now!  Waiter!”

“If I do come,” cried the other, “and take tea with you, this bill must be my affair.”

“Certainly not; you are in my country!”

A long argument ensued, in which the waiter took part, suggesting various solutions.  At last Gino triumphed.  The bill came to eightpence-halfpenny, and a halfpenny for the waiter brought it up to ninepence.  Then there was a shower of gratitude on one side and of deprecation on the other, and when courtesies were at their height they suddenly linked arms and swung down the street, tickling each other with lemonade straws as they went.

Lilia was delighted to see them, and became more animated than Gino had known her for a long time.  The tea tasted of chopped hay, and they asked to be allowed to drink it out of a wine-glass, and refused milk; but, as she repeatedly observed, this was something like.  Spiridione’s manners were very agreeable.  He kissed her hand on introduction, and as his profession had taught him a little English, conversation did not flag.

“Do you like music?” she asked.

“Passionately,” he replied.  “I have not studied scientific music, but the music of the heart, yes.”

So she played on the humming piano very badly, and he sang, not so badly.  Gino got out a guitar and sang too, sitting out on the loggia.  It was a most agreeable visit.

Gino said he would just walk his friend back to his lodgings.  As they went he said, without the least trace of malice or satire in his voice, “I think you are quite right.  I shall not bring people to the house any more.  I do not see why an English wife should be treated differently.  This is Italy.”

“You are very wise,” exclaimed the other; “very wise indeed.  The more precious a possession the more carefully it should be guarded.”

They had reached the lodging, but went on as far as the Caffe Garibaldi, where they spent a long and most delightful evening.

Chapter 4

The advance of regret can be so gradual that it is impossible to say “yesterday I was happy, today I am not.”  At no one moment did Lilia realize that her marriage was a failure; yet during the summer and autumn she became as unhappy as it was possible for her nature to be.  She had no unkind treatment, and few unkind words, from her husband.  He simply left her alone.  In the morning he went out to do “business,” which, as far as she could discover, meant sitting in the Farmacia.  He usually returned to lunch, after which he retired to another room and slept.  In the evening he grew vigorous again, and took the air on the ramparts, often having his dinner out, and seldom returning till midnight or later.  There were, of course, the times when he was away altogether—­at Empoli, Siena, Florence, Bologna—­for he delighted in travel, and seemed to pick up friends all over the country.  Lilia often heard what a favorite he was.