“There is nothing to prevent me from coming to Florence—or living there, if I choose.”
“Oh no—I suppose not. Except that you would be bored to death. It’s not very amusing, unless you happen to be fond of pictures, and you never said you were.”
“I should go to see you.”
“Oh—yes—you could call, and of course if we were at home we should be very glad to see you. But that would only occupy about half an hour of one day. That isn’t much.”
“I mean that I should go to Florence simply for the sake of seeing you, and seeing you often—all the time, in fact.”
“Dear me! That would be a great deal, wouldn’t it? I thought you meant just to call, don’t you know?”
“I’m in earnest, though it sounds very funny, I dare say,” said Johnstone.
“It sounds rather mad,” answered Clare, laughing a little. “I hope you won’t do anything of the kind, because I wouldn’t see you more than once or twice. I’d have headaches and colds and concerts—all the things one has when one isn’t at home to people. But my mother would be delighted. She likes you tremendously, you know, and you could go about to galleries together and read Ruskin and Browning—do you know the Statue and the Bust? And you could go and see Casa Guidi, where the Brownings lived, and you could drive up to San Miniato, and then, you know, you could drive up again and read more Browning and more Ruskin. I’m sure you would enjoy it to any extent. But I should have to go through a terrific siege of colds and headaches. It would be rather hard on me.”
“And harder on me,” observed Brook, “and quite fearful for Mrs. Bowring.”
“Oh no! She would enjoy every minute of it. You forget that she likes you.”