The next day they left. They went to the Villa Solitudine, which Clarissa and Carlo were not using, and for which it was arranged that Aldo should pay rent to Clarissa. Clarissa let him off the rent; and Carlo, not knowing, paid it back to him. So that, on the whole, it was not an unprofitable arrangement for Aldo.
Nancy tried to forget what life was, and smiled and blossomed in tenuous sunrise beauty. And because of all she knew, and was trying to forget, and because she wore trailing Parisian gowns and large, plumed hats, Aldo burned with volcanic meridional love for her.
The Book waited.
One evening, when Aldo was at the piano, improvising music and words on Nancy's loveliness, and she sat on a stool beside him, she asked suddenly: "When shall we begin to work?"
"Oh, never!" said Aldo, putting his right arm round her neck without interrupting the chords he was playing with his left hand.
Nancy laughed, and laid her head against his arm.
"Oh, but we must, Aldo. I want to write my book. It is to be a great book."
Aldo nodded, and went on playing.
"And you, Aldo. You cannot pass your life saying that you adore me."