He smiled bitterly.
“You women always think of money.”
“But for your sake only, dear Michael,” cried his sister; and her tearful eyes spoke the truth. Poor little soul! she could but go as far as her gifts went, and they extended no farther than to the thought of what comforts would this sum procure for Michael—a richer velvet gown and cap, like one of the old Italian painters—perhaps a journey to refresh his wearied eyes among lovely scenes of nature. She explained this, looking, not angry but just a little hurt.
“A journey! yes, I will take a journey—one which I have longed for these thirty years—I will go to Rome! Once again I will lie on the floor of the Sistine, and look up worshipingly to Michael the angel.” (He always called him so.)
“And how long shall you stay, brother?”
“Stay?—Until my heart grows pulseless, and my brain dull. Why should I ever come back to this cold England?
“No: let me grow old, die, and be buried under the shadow of the eternal City.”
“He will never come back again—never,” said Miss Vanbrugh, looking at Olive with a vague bewilderment. “He will leave this pretty cottage, and me, and everything.”
There was a dead silence, during which poor 'Meliora sat plaiting her white apron in fold after fold, as was her habit when in deep and perplexed thought. Then she went up to her brother.
“Michael, if you will take me, I should like to go too.”