"Corrie is home," Gerard announced, pausing in one of the arched openings. "But I suppose you saw him come in, from here."
The young girl lifted to him the frank welcome of her glance and smile, with their pathetic shade of hostess dignity.
"I saw you both come in," she confirmed. "One sees a great deal from this watch-tower. But it is good of you to tell me; you know how glad I am when he is back. Will you not rest before you go into the house? Corrie always comes here first; to gather strength, he says, to climb the terrace steps."
"I am not fit," he deprecated. "I would soil your purple with my dust and poison, your Venetian atmosphere with gasoline fumes."
"Corrie does it."
"Corrie is privileged. The first time I ever saw you, you were watching Corrie. You made me feel that I lived in a barn."
"A——"
"A blank, impersonal, vacant set of rooms. A house where, if I were brought in on a shutter, there would be no one except the undertaker to pull down the shades."
Flavia winced, shocked out of her calm.
"Please do not! I—please do not say those things."