"Yes," said John, "bad and bootless. You'd find me as unyielding as adamant."
"Ah, well," sighed Annunziata, a deep and tremulous sigh. "Then I will wait."
And, like a true philosopher, she proceeded to occupy her mind with a fresh interest. She looked round the room, she looked out of the window. "Why do you stay here? It is much pleasanter in the garden," she remarked.
"I came here to seek for consolation. To-day began for me with a tragic misadventure," John replied.
Annunziata's eyes grew big, compassionating him, and, at the same time, bespeaking a lively curiosity.
"Poor Prospero," she gently murmured. "What was it?" on tip-toe she demanded.
"Well," he said, "when I rose, to go for my morning swim, I made an elaborate toilet, because I hoped to meet a certain person whom, for reasons connected with my dignity, I wished to impress. But it was love's labour lost. The certain person is an ornament of the uncertain sex, and didn't turn up. So, to console myself, I came here."
Annunziata looked round the room again. "What is there here that can console you?"
"These," said John. His hand swept the pictured walls.
"The paintings?" said she, following his gesture. "How can they console you?"