“Stop a minute,” Kyrle said. “If you have nothing more to say to me, at least let me say something to you. I have never looked at the matter in exactly the light in which you have put it. But if you will have patience, if you will give me a little time to consider, I will tell you my final decision before to-day is ended.”
“In your place, I would tell mine in five minutes,” said Fanny, scornfully.
“Very likely,” said he, humbly, “but you must make allowances for the slowness of the masculine mind. Can I see you—will you be at home this afternoon?”
“No,” she replied, after a moment’s consideration, “for Mr. Meredith would likely be at home also, and we could not speak freely. But you may meet me at the top of the Campanile about sunset.”
She had hardly said this, and Kyrle had no more than time to assent, when Miss Joscelyn emerged from the church and came toward them with an air of surprise.
“I have been wondering what had become of Mr. Kyrle,” she said. “You really should not have kept him from studying those extraordinary frescoes of Carpaccio.”
“They are certainly extraordinary,” said Fanny, dryly, “but I have not kept Mr. Kyrle from them. I found him here when I came out for a little relief of sunshine. I hope that we are done with Carpaccio now, and that we are going home. It is time for lunch, and I am hungry.”
This seemed to be the general sentiment of the party, which, with a somewhat stupefied appearance—as of having taken art in rather too large a dose—now emerged from the church. The major was shaking his head. “Mr. Ruskin is, no doubt, a fine judge of painting,” he was saying, “but, really—ah—hum—to send one to see such pictures as these!”
Aimée, who was walking behind with Percy, looked tired and pale, and when Kyrle met her eyes he was about to step to her side, but a hand was suddenly laid on his arm.