Miss Clotilde Stellenthorpe returned to Italy, and mysteriously expressed her parting counsel to Lily.
"Aha, bambina! You will have courage, will you not? There is much to be done, much to be suffered, by those who steer slender craft down the rapids."
Lily did not seek to interpret her aunt's metaphor. It seemed to her, indeed, that she sought nothing, did nothing, said nothing. Everything within herself was negative, torpid and unresisting.
"You are asleep," said Giulio della Torre half wistfully, half reproachfully.
"Perhaps."
"Do you never mean to wake up, Princess?"
"I can't," said Lily.
She was unable to resist the temptation of interpreting herself to so sympathetic an observer. "When I was a little girl, I cared about things so dreadfully. I had a younger sister whom I loved ... in those days everything seemed to matter so much. Now, I hardly feel anything at all. I seem to have grown indifferent."
"Because there is nothing for you to care about." He looked at her boldly.
"I think one might break through the thorn-hedge, Princess, and waken you."