“Oh, I don’t expect you to go on admiring me. I’m quite satisfied, and grateful, and all that.”
“I’m glad you’re so easily satisfied. Couldn’t we talk seriously about something or other? It seems to me that we’ve been chaffing for half an hour, haven’t we?”
“It hasn’t been all chaff, Miss Bowring,” said Johnstone. “At least, not on my side. ”
“Then I’m sorry,” Clare answered. They relapsed into silence, as they walked their beat, to and fro. The sun had gone down, and it was already twilight on that side of the mountains. The rain had cooled the air, and the far land to southward was darkly distinct beyond the purple water. It was very chilly, and Clare was without a shawl, and Johnstone was hatless, but neither of them noticed that it was cool. Johnstone was the first to speak.
“Is this sort of thing to go on for ever, Miss Bowring?” he asked gravely.
“What?” But she knew very well what he meant.
“This—this very odd footing we are on, you and I—are we never going to get past it?”
“Oh—I hope not,” answered Clare, cheerfully. “I think it’s very pleasant, don’t you? And most original. We are intimate enough to say all sorts of things, and I’m your enemy, and you say you are my friend. I can’t imagine any better arrangement. We shall always laugh when we think of it—even years hence. You will be going away in a few days, and we shall stay here into the summer and we shall never see each other again, in all probability. We shall always look back on this time—as something quite odd, you know. ”
“You are quite mistaken if you think that we shall never meet again,” said Johnstone.
“I mean that it’s very unlikely. You see we don’t go home very often, and when we do we stop with friends in the country. We don’t go much into society. And the rest of the time we generally live in Florence.”