So the two young men parted with a good deal of genuine affection.  For the barrier of language is sometimes a blessed barrier, which only lets pass what is good.  Or—­to put the thing less cynically—­we may be better in new clean words, which have never been tainted by our pettiness or vice.  Philip, at all events, lived more graciously in Italian, the very phrases of which entice one to be happy and kind.  It was horrible to think of the English of Harriet, whose every word would be as hard, as distinct, and as unfinished as a lump of coal.

Harriet, however, talked little.  She had seen enough to know that her brother had failed again, and with unwonted dignity she accepted the situation.  She did her packing, she wrote up her diary, she made a brown paper cover for the new Baedeker.  Philip, finding her so amenable, tried to discuss their future plans.  But she only said that they would sleep in Florence, and told him to telegraph for rooms.  They had supper alone.  Miss Abbott did not come down.  The landlady told them that Signor Carella had called on Miss Abbott to say good-bye, but she, though in, had not been able to see him.  She also told them that it had begun to rain.  Harriet sighed, but indicated to her brother that he was not responsible.

The carriages came round at a quarter past eight.  It was not raining much, but the night was extraordinarily dark, and one of the drivers wanted to go slowly to the station.  Miss Abbott came down and said that she was ready, and would start at once.

“Yes, do,” said Philip, who was standing in the hall.  “Now that we have quarrelled we scarcely want to travel in procession all the way down the hill.  Well, good-bye; it’s all over at last; another scene in my pageant has shifted.”

“Good-bye; it’s been a great pleasure to see you.  I hope that won’t shift, at all events.”  She gripped his hand.

“You sound despondent,” he said, laughing.  “Don’t forget that you return victorious.”

“I suppose I do,” she replied, more despondently than ever, and got into the carriage.  He concluded that she was thinking of her reception at Sawston, whither her fame would doubtless precede her.  Whatever would Mrs. Herriton do?  She could make things quite unpleasant when she thought it right.  She might think it right to be silent, but then there was Harriet.  Who would bridle Harriet’s tongue?  Between the two of them Miss Abbott was bound to have a bad time.  Her reputation, both for consistency and for moral enthusiasm, would be lost for ever.

“It’s hard luck on her,” he thought.  “She is a good person.  I must do for her anything I can.”  Their intimacy had been very rapid, but he too hoped that it would not shift.  He believed that he understood her, and that she, by now, had seen the worst of him.  What if after a long time—­if after all—­he flushed like a boy as he looked after her carriage.