“Why should one think?” he said. His voice sounded so queerly in his own ears that he half hoped, half feared, she must detect something, “No; as I say, it’s a pity, it’s stupid. I suppose it’s the penalty one has to pay for the drive of life.”
“Tell me—” he began and suddenly stopped. She looked round, surprised.
“Tell you what?”
“No, I won’t say it.”
She thought he might be going to ask something about Sylvia, and wondered how she could help him.
“As we are here,” she said, “we may as well see the sunset.”
For already there was a throb of pink in the clear western sky, pink, of which the almond blossom seemed the reflection. Teresa’s face was turned from him to watch it grow, and for a long time neither spoke. It was a dangerous silence, had she but known it. At last she drew a deep breath.
“There must be a golden sea on the other side of Etna,” she said, “and I wish I was there. Don’t you?”
“No. I’m content.”
She laughed, and sprang up.