“My friends! and I haven’t seen them for two years! My English friends! From my home! I’m to go to Italy—to Florence—Fra Angelico—Benozzo Gozzoli—six weeks—and perhaps Rome—with my friends—my English friends!”
She was nearly crying with delight. And then, with quick compunction at their blank faces—
“But you do understand how grateful I am? I simply hate leaving. You do understand?”
The sisters assured her that they did understand. She should have her holiday, and her visit home, and then—she would come back? In two, three, four months, she would want to come back. Because a talent was a gift of God—and the school would be so proud—and, who knew, a picture in the Salon! Of course they understood. She should go. But afterwards—she would come back?
She was bewildered by their solicitude. It was the first time in her life that affection had come to her unsought. Its display touched her (that they should actually be fond of her!) but it embarrassed her too. She could only smile and nod and thank them again and again, and promise to think over all they had said, and write to them from Italy.
“She will come back,” said the sisters confidently, when at last Laura had escaped. “So young a thing—her holiday—natural enough! But the talent is there, as Monsieur says. And talent will out. She will come back.”
Monsieur La Motte listened to them as he had listened to Laura, in silence. It was not until coffee had been served and drunk, and the dregs were cold in his cup, that he delivered himself.
“She will not come back,” he decided with a sigh, as he rose to go.
“You will see! In two months—you will see!” they consoled him sagaciously.
“She will not come back.”