“That settles it,” said Teresa happily. She had recovered herself so completely that even Mrs Brodrick wondered at the swift change, especially when she turned kindly to Wilbraham. “You’ll come, too, won’t you? I’ll undertake to keep off dangerous subjects, and then I shan’t be cross.”
“I’ll come if I may.”
His tone was still a little stiff, and Teresa, glancing at him, saw that he was looking at Sylvia.
Except for the Tiber—and that can often be as grim as its history—the road to Ostia begins wearyingly. Farther on it grows rapidly in interest, till, when you reach Ostia itself, you think no more about beauty or interest, or your own passing sensations—it is too great. Sad, even in clearest sunshine, with rifled temples, ruined splendour, and the melancholy of its deserted gods, the sombre weight of centuries broods over it. The Tiber—no mere river here, but the symbol of a lost empire—swirls sullenly by, and as the sun sets and Vulcan’s shrine crimsons in its glow, fever creeps shivering from misty pools and clutches its victims. Those who go to Ostia should not linger too long.
But this day, on which Teresa brought her there, the sadness was but delicately suggestive and not oppressive. The air was warm, yet fresh and invigorating, and Teresa herself was in high spirits.
“Come,” she cried breathlessly, when she had climbed a steep bank, and stood looking out at the Tiber, now faintly yellow and grey, “come, Sylvia, and let us be foolish by ourselves.”
“Foolish!” repeated Sylvia startled.
Mrs Brodrick, had she been near enough, would have smiled, but Teresa nodded gaily.
“As foolish as we like. Mr Wilbraham can look after granny and improve her, while we enjoy our ignorance. It’s much better fun to imagine things than to know them. Let us run down there to begin with, and peep behind those columns. Who knows what might not be hiding there! Come, Sylvia!”
And she held out her hand.