“Would it?” He flung hasty thought at what the others would say on the matter, and his leaving immediately looked so suspicious in his own eyes, that he felt as if it must proclaim his secret to the world. He forced a laugh, however.
“What’s odd in having business to see after?”
“Oh, but they all know you haven’t.”
Silence.
“I wish I knew what makes you want to go home,” said Sylvia wonderingly. “I can’t think! Won’t you tell me?”
Wilbraham moved uneasily. He could not lie to her, and the truth was impossible. He chose a middle course.
“If you really dislike it so much, I’ll stay. It shall make no difference,” he promised his conscience.
“I was sure you would not go,” was all she said, and he was vaguely surprised, expecting delight and surprise in a gush, but thankful they were not lavished upon him.
Through that day and the next, and the next, he kept iron hands on himself, close to Sylvia’s side. Teresa was too well pleased to see him there so much as to wonder why once or twice he avoided her—almost rudely. She went on her way light-heartedly, and began to sing when she was alone. She painted here, there, everywhere, the women carrying their empty pitchers to the fountain lengthways on their heads, or coming back upright, supple, with the heavy weight poised securely; the old people hurrying with their chairs to a little homely church, sunk in a narrow street; the Catania Gate, with its long flight of outer steps, and its odd crooked arches; walls blistered by sun, and overhung by grey-green prickly pear and red shoots of pomegranate; Gothic arches, rose windows; sunrise and sunset; glory of noonday; flash of falling rain, and sullen overshadowing of thunder-cloud. The little city, hanging on its hillside, had for her a charm which never wearied.
The only one who seemed restless and dissatisfied was Nina. Teresa began to be sorry that she had brought her, though she had imagined it would make travelling easier for her grandmother. But the little Viterbo woman frankly hated the place, and Italians of her class are too much like children to attempt to disguise their feelings. Then she had spilt oil on the day of their departure, and only the Madonna knew what disasters that might not bring! There was a bottle of wine close by, and why should not that have been knocked over instead, when such an upset would have ensured good luck? For want of other listeners, she talked of this to Peppina, and watched the girl’s face as she spoke. Peppina shrugged her shoulders.