"Comparatively. He will make a better husband for having had experience, I daresay."
"That depends on what experience he has had. When I first saw him I thought he was in love with Donna Francesca. It would have been like an artist. They are mostly fools. But I was mistaken. He worships at a distance."
"And she preserves the distance," Griggs remarked. "You are not drinking fair. My glass is empty."
Dalrymple finished his and refilled both.
"I have been here some time," he observed, half apologetically. "But as I was saying—or rather, as you were saying—Donna Francesca preserves the distance. These Italians do that admirably. They know the difference between intimacy and familiarity."
"That is a nice distinction," said Griggs. "I will use it in my next letter. No. Donna Francesca could never be familiar with any one. They learn it when they are young, I suppose, and it becomes a race-characteristic."
"What?" asked Dalrymple, abruptly.
"A certain graceful loftiness," answered the younger man.
The Scotchman's wrinkled eyelids contracted, and he was silent for a few moments.
"A certain graceful loftiness," he repeated slowly. "Yes, perhaps so. A certain graceful loftiness."