“Thank him, please, when you write,” said Miss Abbott, “and give him my kindest regards.”

“Indeed I will.”  He was surprised that she could slide away from the man so easily.  For his own part, he was bound by ties of almost alarming intimacy.  Gino had the southern knack of friendship.  In the intervals of business he would pull out Philip’s life, turn it inside out, remodel it, and advise him how to use it for the best.  The sensation was pleasant, for he was a kind as well as a skilful operator.  But Philip came away feeling that he had not a secret corner left.  In that very letter Gino had again implored him, as a refuge from domestic difficulties, “to marry Miss Abbott, even if her dowry is small.”  And how Miss Abbott herself, after such tragic intercourse, could resume the conventions and send calm messages of esteem, was more than he could understand.

“When will you see him again?” she asked.  They were standing together in the corridor of the train, slowly ascending out of Italy towards the San Gothard tunnel.

“I hope next spring.  Perhaps we shall paint Siena red for a day or two with some of the new wife’s money.  It was one of the arguments for marrying her.”

“He has no heart,” she said severely.  “He does not really mind about the child at all.”

“No; you’re wrong.  He does.  He is unhappy, like the rest of us.  But he doesn’t try to keep up appearances as we do.  He knows that the things that have made him happy once will probably make him happy again—­”

“He said he would never be happy again.”

“In his passion.  Not when he was calm.  We English say it when we are calm—­when we do not really believe it any longer.  Gino is not ashamed of inconsistency.  It is one of the many things I like him for.”

“Yes; I was wrong.  That is so.”

“He’s much more honest with himself than I am,” continued Philip, “and he is honest without an effort and without pride.  But you, Miss Abbott, what about you?  Will you be in Italy next spring?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.  When will you come back, do you think?”

“I think never.”

“For whatever reason?” He stared at her as if she were some monstrosity.

“Because I understand the place.  There is no need.”

“Understand Italy!” he exclaimed.

“Perfectly.”

“Well, I don’t.  And I don’t understand you,” he murmured to himself, as he paced away from her up the corridor.  By this time he loved her very much, and he could not bear to be puzzled.  He had reached love by the spiritual path:  her thoughts and her goodness and her nobility had moved him first, and now her whole body and all its gestures had become transfigured by them.  The beauties that are called obvious—­the beauties of her hair and her voice and her limbs—­he had noticed these last; Gino, who never traversed any path at all, had commended them dispassionately to his friend.