VI
“If I'm to be made the arbiter of other destinies when my own are more than I can manage” (they were dallying over figs and apricots at breakfast)—“pray, you two good people tell me, kindly, when shall we begin to throw our bonnets over the mill? In other words, on what day and in what month do we start in search of Winter in the North?” Ruth enquired, to a feint of cheerfulness and little dreaming.
“Oh, to-morrow—To-morrow, if you like,” jerked Pontycroft. “Wait not upon the order of your going, but start at once.”
“Start to-morrow!” Lucilla cried, “start to-morrow? Impossible.”
“Why impossible? Nothing is impossible. Ruth wants to go. She said so last night, she more than hints it, to-day. What woman wants, God wants.” Oblivious to the truth that a woman, his sister, panted to remain, Pontycroft glanced at the newspaper at his elbow. “A steamer sails from Genoa tomorrow afternoon, the Princess Irene. I'll go down to Humbert's this moment as ever is,” he added, “and have them wire for a deck cabin.”
“No, no,” protested Lucilla. “Why leave all this loveliness at once? Impossible! Besides, we have people coming to dinner tomorrow,” she remembered hopefully. “Thursday. The Newburys and young Worthington. We can't put them off.”
“We can, and we shall,” asseverated Ponty. “There's nothing so dreadful, Lucilla, as these long superfluous drawn-out farewells, these impending good-byes. Send Pietro, if you like, to say we've all responded to a call of duty. Tell your friends in all charity, that when duty calls the wise youth replies: 'I won't.' Why?... Because he knows that nine times out of ten duty is only what somebody else thinks he ought to be doing. But tell them duty's only skin deep, by way of advice. Tell them one's response to duty is generally the mere weak living up to somebody else's good opinion of one. Say to them: 'Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.' But say that in this case it's otherwise—we're not wise, and we've answered with one accord: 'I will.' Say to them that therein lies our folly.—We're exceedingly sorry—sorry, but we must be off. It shall be a seven days' wonder, Florence shall have something to talk about. She needs brisking up. Ruth, I'm off to engage your passage. The sooner you go, the sooner you'll come back to tell us all about it,—tell us whether the play was worth the candle.”
Ponty rang for his stick and his hat, lighted the inevitable cigarette.
“Paolina will pack you up, Ruth, if she has to keep busy until midnight,” he directed, between two puffs. “Lucilla, Pietro can help Maria with your paraphernalia; when I'm back here with our tickets he'll be half through the packing. Lazy duffer though he be, once he begins, he's rapid as radium.” Ponty was gone before either Lucilla or Ruth could protest.
They looked at one another.... What ludicrous extravagance of sudden breaking up! This high-handed method of bringing matters summarily to a climax struck them both. Lucilla and Ruth broke into peals of laughter.