Guido laughed carelessly.
"You have a most unpleasant way of naming things," he said. "Shall we go? It is growing late, and I have promised to see my aunt before dinner."
"Will there be any one else there?" asked Lamberti.
"Why? Did you think of going with me?"
"I might. It is a long time since I have called. I think I shall be a little more assiduous in future."
"It is not gay, at my aunt's," observed Guido. "Monsieur Leroy will be there. You may have to shake hands with him!"
"You do not seem anxious that I should go with you," laughed Lamberti.
Guido said nothing for a moment, and seemed to be weighing the question, as if it might be of some importance. Lamberti afterwards remembered the slight hesitation.
"By all means come," Guido said, when he had made up his mind.
He glanced once more at the place, for he liked it, and it was pleasant to carry away pictures of what one liked, even of a bit of neglected old garden with a stone-pine in the middle, clearly cut out against the sky. He wondered idly whether he should ever come again—whether, after all, it would be cowardly to go to sleep with the certainty of not waking, and whether he should find anything beyond, or not.