"Are you not going away at all?" asked Laura, in some surprise. "You ought to; it will do you good."
"I hardly know. I like to be alone in summer. It gives one time to think. One has a chance of leading a sensible life when nobody is here to see. The days pass pleasantly—plenty of reading, a diet of watermelon and sherbet, and a little repentance—it is magnificent treatment for the liver."
Laura looked at him and then laughed very softly.
"You seem amused," said Ghisleri, gravely. "What I say is quite true—the result of long experience."
"I was not laughing at what you said, but at the idea that you should still think it worth while to make such speeches to me."
"If I can make you laugh at all it is worth while."
"At all events, it is good of you to say so. Which of the three subjects do you mean to take for your letters to me—your reading, your food, or your repentance?"
"The food would be the simplest and safest topic. You can read for yourself what you please. Repentance, when it is not a habit, is rarely well done. But one can say the most charming things about strawberries, peaches, and figs, without ever offending any one's taste."
"I think you grow worse as you grow older," said Laura, still smiling. "But if you would take your programme seriously, it would not be a bad thing, I fancy. Seriously, however, you ought to get away from Rome."
"I should be tempted to go and stay a week near you, if I went away at all," said Ghisleri.