d it even for a
moment, and one can scarcely believe that one will be allowed to
have it again. But, please God, we will. We'll sit on the terrace
again together, and see the stars come out, and--The doctor's come
and I must stop. I'll write again almost directly. Good-night, my
dearest. Buon riposo. Do you remember when you first heard that?
Somehow, since then I always connect the words with you. I won't
send my love, because it's all in Sicily with you. I'll send it
instead to Gaspare. Tell him I feel happy that he is with the
padrone, because I know how faithful and devoted he is. Tanti
saluti a Lucrezia. Oh, Maurice, pray that I may soon be back. You
do want me, don't you?
HERMIONE."

Maurice looked up from the letter and met Gaspare's questioning eyes.

"There's something for you," he said.

And he read in Italian Hermione's message. Gaspare beamed with pride and
pleasure.

"And the sick signore?" he asked. "Is he better?"

Maurice explained how things were.

"The signora is longing to come back to us," he said.

"Of course she is," said Gaspare, calmly.

Then suddenly he jumped up.

"Signorino," he said. "I am going to write a letter to the signora. She
will like to have a letter from me. She will think she is in Sicily."

"And when you have finished, I will write," said Maurice.

"Si, signore."

And Gaspare ran off up the hill towards the cottage, leaving his master
alone.

Maurice began to read the letter again, slowly. It made him feel almost
as if he were with Hermione. He seemed to see her as he read, and he
smiled. How good she was and true, and how enthusiastic! When he had
finished the second reading of the letter he laid it down, and put his
hands behind his head again, and looked up at the quivering blue. Then he
thought of Artois. He remembered his tall figure, his robust limbs, his
handsome, powerful face. It was strange to think that he was desperately
ill, perhaps dying. Death--what must that be like? How deep the blue
looked, as if there were thousands of miles of it, as if it stretched on
and on forever! Artois, perhaps, was dying, but he felt as if he could
never die, never even be ill. He stretched his body on the warm ground.
The blue seemed to deny the fact of death. He tried to imagine Artois in
bed in the heat of Africa, with the flies buzzing round him. Then he
looked