"One of them was this."
"Was what?"
"Coming to Italy with me."
"You said heaps of people—"
"Oh, yes, I know—a man has to say things. And the other was writing that letter to Robert. If you'd left it at boots and Berlin!"
He laughed triumphantly and kissed her hand again.
"But that wouldn't have helped, either, really," he went on, "because directly the ten days were up and you hadn't come back he'd have known—"
"Hadn't come back?"
"Oh, Ingeborg—little love, little Parsifal among women, dear divine ignorance and obtuseness—I adore you for believing the picture could be done in a week!"
"But you said—"