They walked very slowly along the path towards the fountain, and past it, to the parapet at the other end, where they had talked long ago. But as they passed the bench, they glanced at it quietly, and saw that it was still in its place. Cecilia had not been at the villa since the afternoon before Guido fell ill, and Lamberti had never come there since the garden party in May.
They stood still before the low wall and looked across the shoulder of the hill. Saving commonplace words at meeting, they had not spoken yet. Cecilia broke the silence at last, looking straight before her, her lids low, her face quiet, almost as if she were in a dream.
"Have we done all that we could do, all that we ought to do for him?" she asked. "Are you sure?"
"We can do nothing more," Lamberti answered gravely.
"Tell me again what he said. I want the very words."
"He said, 'Tell her that it would be a little hard for me to talk with her now, but that she must not think I am not glad that she is going to marry my best friend.' He said those words, and he said he would write to you from the Tyrol. He leaves to-morrow night."
"He has been very generous," Cecilia said softly.
"Yes. He will be your best friend, as he is mine."
She knew that it was true.
"We have done what we can," Lamberti continued presently. "He has given all he has, and we have given him what we could. The rest is ours."