"Thank you, no; he does not interest me in the least. I was merely astonished to hear of his being in Naples, for in Rome he was said to be on the eve of marriage with an English lady there."
"Addio then. Come and see me at Sorrento some day,—it will be a change for you."
"You are very kind, but I do not want change; I like my island solitude. Good-bye." And Mr. Earnscliffe turned immediately away as the boatman pushed off.
[CHAPTER XII.]
The next morning found Mr. Earnscliffe still wondering how it was that Mr. Lyne came to be in Naples, and what had become of Flora Adair. Was it possible that she had refused Mr. Lyne? He felt a little startled at finding how much these thoughts occupied his mind; but, as he had often done before, he tried to persuade himself that he was quite indifferent to her proceedings personally, and that it was merely for the sake of the possible good of human nature in woman that he wished to know if she had been true and high-minded enough to reject this offer. What delicious self-deception! Had Mr. Earnscliffe said to himself, "If Mary Elton, instead of Flora Adair, were in question, should I be so interested in the possible good of human nature in woman, and care so very much to discover how she had acted?" But he asked himself no such question. It would have been an unsatisfactory way of putting the case; whereas, by placing it under the head of a laudable desire to acquire knowledge of human nature, it was quite another matter, and in that light he felt himself free to dwell upon it, and even actively to endeavour to unravel the mystery. Yet he could not succeed in finding a clear starting point for his investigations.
He wandered about without any settled object, or sat upon a rock with a book in his hand; but its pages remained unturned, and not even Anina, who well knew his favourite rocky perch, and seldom failed to join him there, could win from him now anything more than an absent smile; and having exhausted all her pretty little wiles to attract his attention, she at last went and stood beside him and asked, "Is il caro signore ill?"
The child's question roused him, and, drawing her to him, he said, "No, carina, I am not ill, I was only thinking."
"Thinking, signore," repeated Anina slowly, as if that word gave her the idea of a very mystic operation indeed.