“Mother—mother in heaven! I loved her because she was of a nature the same as yours—saint-like as a lily—shrinking from the world—in the world but having nothing in common with the world. I loved her because I thought that she was as you were. I will not be a traitor to your ideal—to your memory.”
He returned to her.
“I am alone in the world; but I know that the spirit of that saint, my mother, looks down upon me from her heaven, and will comfort me. My heart is broken. Addio! Addio! I do not mean to be cruel—tell me that you do not accuse me of being cruel!”
“I do not accuse you. I think I understand you—that is all.”
“Addio—addio—addio!”
The sound of his voice grew less with every word.
She was alone in the silence of the twilight.
Not for long, however. She heard the voice of Mrs. Thrale in the room behind her, followed by the protests of Dr. Johnson.
“Miss Burney and I want to have an undisturbed talk together about writing books,” Mrs. Thrale was saying as she came out upon the terrace.
“Books, madam; any fool can talk of books, and a good many fools avail themselves of the licence,” cried Johnson. “Miss Burney and I are going to talk about life. Books are not life, Miss Burney.”