The Italian raised his eyebrows.
"Of course! How can you wonder? Your capacity for emotion of every kind is written on your face. Not for all to read, certainly: but for those who know, to recognize. You are not happy."
"Yes, I am," said Lily quickly.
"Forgive me. You say that because you think I have no right to speak so—and perhaps I deserve it. I am sorry."
The humility in his voice caused her a moment of compunction.
"Don't be sorry," she said, smiling. "I suppose no one is exactly happy, once the happiness of childhood has been left behind."
"Childhood!" exclaimed the Italian scornfully. "The happiness of childhood! What does childhood know beyond the happiness of eating too many sweets, the happiness of a little animal? It is only men and women who experience real happiness, and real suffering. You—you have never yet been happy, and you are beginning to realize it. Is that true?"
"Yes," said Lily very low.
He betrayed no least quiver of triumph at having won the admission from her.
"You are eternally seeking something—perhaps you hardly know what ... desires and vague wishes within yourself frighten and disturb you sometimes—then you think that you are ungrateful and discontented, and you blame yourself. Non é vero?"