Philip put on his pince-nez. “‘Lucia di Lammermoor. By the Master Donizetti. Unique representation. This evening.’
“But is there an opera? Right up here?”
“Why, yes. These people know how to live. They would sooner have a thing bad than not have it at all. That is why they have got to have so much that is good. However bad the performance is tonight, it will be alive. Italians don’t love music silently, like the beastly Germans. The audience takes its share—sometimes more.”
“Can’t we go?”
He turned on her, but not unkindly. “But we’re here to rescue a child!”
He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure and the light went out of her face, and she became again Miss Abbott of Sawston—good, oh, most undoubtedly good, but most appallingly dull. Dull and remorseful: it is a deadly combination, and he strove against it in vain till he was interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door.
They started as guiltily as if they had been flirting. Their interview had taken such an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn morality—all had ended in a feeling of good-will towards each other and towards the city which had received them. And now Harriet was here—acrid, indissoluble, large; the same in Italy as in England—changing her disposition never, and her atmosphere under protest.
Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for a little tea. She did not scold Philip for finding Gino out, as she might reasonably have done. She showered civilities on Miss Abbott, exclaiming again and again that Caroline’s visit was one of the most fortunate coincidences in the world. Caroline did not contradict her.
“You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don’t forget the blank cheque. Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two. Twelve o’clock. Lunch. Well—then it’s no good going till the evening train. I can manage the baby as far as Florence—”
“My dear sister, you can’t run on like that. You don’t buy a pair of gloves in two hours, much less a baby.”