“And Italy?” said Joan, still more softly.
“Where did you go in Italy, Peter?” said Oswald, picking up her question.
Peter gave a travel-book description of Orta and the Isle of San Giulio.
Joan sat as still and watchful as a little cat watching for a mouse. (Something had put Peter out in Italy.)
“It’s off the main line,” said Peter. “The London and Paris papers don’t arrive, and one has to fall back on the Corriere della Sera.”
“Very good paper too,” said Oswald.
“News doesn’t seem so real in a language you don’t understand.”
He was excusing himself. So he was ashamed to that extent. That was what was bothering him. One might have known he wouldn’t care for—those other things....
Late that night Joan sat in her room thinking. Presently she unlocked her writing-desk and took out and re-read a letter. It was from Huntley in Cornwall, and it was very tender and passionate. “The world has gone mad, dearest,” it ran; “but we need not go mad. The full moon is slipping by. I lay out on the sands last night praying for you to come, trying to will you to come. Oh—when are you coming?”...
And much more to the same effect....