“You have come,” she said.  “I hope that it is not too late.”

Vittoria was a week without sight of her lover:  nor did Countess Ammiani attempt to explain her words, or speak of other than common daily things.  In body and soul Vittoria had taken a chill.  The silent blame resting on her in this house called up her pride, so that she would not ask any questions; and when Carlo came, she wanted warmth to melt her.  Their meeting was that of two passionless creatures.  Carlo kissed her loyally, and courteously inquired after her health and the health of friends in Milan, and then he rallied his mother.  Agostino had arrived with him, and the old man, being in one of his soft moods, unvexed by his conceits, Vittoria had some comfort from him of a dull kind.  She heard Carlo telling his mother that he must go in the morning.  Agostino replied to her quick look at him, “I stay;” and it seemed like a little saved from the wreck, for she knew that she could speak to Agostino as she could not to the countess.  When his mother prepared to retire, Carlo walked over to his bride, and repeated rapidly and brightly his inquiries after friends in Milan.  She, with a pure response to his natural-unnatural manner, spoke of Merthyr Powys chiefly:  to which he said several times, “Dear fellow!” and added, “I shall always love Englishmen for his sake.”

This gave her one throb.  “I could not leave him, Carlo.”

“Certainly not, certainly not,” said Carlo.  “I should have been happy to wait on him myself.  I was busy; I am still.  I dare say you have guessed that I have a new journal in my head:  the Pallanza Iris is to be the name of it;—­to be printed in three colours, to advocate three principles, in three styles.  The Legitimists, the Moderates, and the Republicans are to proclaim themselves in its columns in prose, poetry, and hotch-potch.  Once an editor, always an editor.  The authorities suspect that something of the sort is about to be planted, so I can only make occasional visits here:—­therefore, as you will believe,”—­Carlo let his voice fall—­“I have good reason to hate them still.  They may cease to persecute me soon.”

He insisted upon lighting his mother to her room.  Vittoria and Agostino sat talking of the Chief and the minor events of the war—­of Luciano, Marco, Giulio, and Ugo Corte—­till the conviction fastened on them that Carlo would not return, when Agostino stood up and said, yawning wearily, “I’ll talk further to you, my child, tomorrow.”

She begged that it might be now.

“No; to-morrow,” said he.

“Now, now!” she reiterated, and brought down a reproof from his fore-finger.

“The poetic definition of ‘now’ is that it is a small boat, my daughter, in which the female heart is constantly pushing out to sea and sinking.  ‘To-morrow’ is an island in the deeps, where grain grows.  When I land you there, I will talk to you.”

She knew that he went to join Carlo after he had quitted her.