better go in after all," she said, and her tone was full
of the embarrassment against which she struggled. "We seem like two
disembodied spirits talking out of the dusk like this."

"I wish we were," came the answer, tense and abrupt as though in spite
of his will.

"Oh, no," she faltered, attempting a little laugh which died out
helplessly. "We are both too fond of life for that, Marchese."

"I could be fond of it."

"No, no. You are fond of it now."

"Yes ... now."

"Come--Luigi has taken up my parcels. Such lovely things. I want to show
them to you."

"_Prego_ ... but I must be going--Baldi will begin to fret."

He had recovered a more ordinary tone. He had himself gripped hard. What
was there in her shy voice which had almost made him lose command of
himself for a moment? There had been something. No; he was a fond fool.
He held out his hand for good-night. She put hers in it. The man's
blood and spirit was one cry within him. It called to her so wildly that
he thought she must hear that voice of silence. Her hand seemed to
quiver as it lay in his, then she withdrew it quickly.

"Good-night," she said. He murmured "good-night," turned and was gone.
Sophy stood gazing out to where the _Fretta_ lay a whitish blur along
the _banchetta_. Then she saw the little jewel of its lamp shine
suddenly--Peder's face glowed yellow-red in the flare of the match, then
went out as it were. Now Amaldi had got in. She heard the engine begin
to hum. In a second the dusk had swallowed them.

She stood gripping the iron rail, till the chill struck along her arms.
She was very honest with herself. "I care too much ... not _that_ way
... but oh! ... I care too much!" she was saying. "And he cares ... he
cares ... I must go away ... I must go even sooner than I thought...."
Then she sank down on the little stone seat, and pressed her forehead to
the rail.

"Life is hard ... it is hard ... hard," she thought, a great wave of
bitterness going over her.

But the next day she was so worried about Bobby, who had caught cold in
some way, that she had no time to give, even in thought, to other
anxieties. The child looked pale, the glands in his little neck were
swollen, he seemed to have pain, clasping his fat little stomach with
pathetic hands and saying: "Naughty tummy. Bobby tummy bad--naughty." He
was a manly little chap and wouldn't howl outright, but he curled into a
ball on his cot, murmuring, "Oo ... oo ... o--o" plaintively