“I hope next spring. Perhaps we shall paint Siena red for a day or two with some of the new wife’s money. It was one of the arguments for marrying her.”
“He has no heart,” she said severely. “He does not really mind about the child at all.”
“No; you’re wrong. He does. He is unhappy, like the rest of us. But he doesn’t try to keep up appearances as we do. He knows that the things that have made him happy once will probably make him happy again—”
“He said he would never be happy again.”
“In his passion. Not when he was calm. We English say it when we are calm—when we do not really believe it any longer. Gino is not ashamed of inconsistency. It is one of the many things I like him for.”
“Yes; I was wrong. That is so.”
“He’s much more honest with himself than I am,” continued Philip, “and he is honest without an effort and without pride. But you, Miss Abbott, what about you? Will you be in Italy next spring?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry. When will you come back, do you think?”
“I think never.”