"They are still in Rome," Lamberti said, after a moment's pause, during which he had decided to speak at last.
"Are they?" asked Guido, coldly.
"Yes. Neither the Countess nor her daughter would go away till you were well."
"I am well now."
He was painfully thin and his eyes were hollow. The doctor had ordered mountain air and he was going to stay with one of his relatives in the Austrian Tyrol as soon as he could bear the journey without too much fatigue.
"They wish to see you," Lamberti said, glancing sideways at his face.
"I cannot refuse, but I would rather not see them. They ought to understand that, I think."
He was offended by what seemed very like an intrusion on the privacy of a suffering that was still keen. Why could they not leave him alone?
"They would not have gone away in any case till you recovered," Lamberti answered, "but the Contessina would not have the bad taste to wish for a meeting just now, unless there were a reason which you do not know, and which I must explain to you, cost what it may."
Guido looked at Lamberti in surprise and then laughed a little scornfully.