“Did you come to England for that?”
“For what else should I have come?” the Prince asked as he turned his blighted gaze to the opposite side of South Street.
“In London, such a day as this, già,” said the old lady sympathetically. “I’m very sorry for you; but if I had known you were coming I’d have written to you that you might spare yourself the pain.”
He gave a deep interminable sigh. “You ask me what I wish to propose. What I wish to propose is that my wife shouldn’t kill me inch by inch.”
“She’d be much more likely to do that if you lived with her!” Madame Grandoni cried.
“Cara amica, she doesn’t appear to have killed you,” the melancholy nobleman returned.
“Oh, me? I’m past killing. I’m as hard as a stone. I went through my miseries long ago; I suffered what you’ve not had to suffer; I wished for death many times and I survived it all. Our troubles don’t kill us, Principe mio; it’s we who must try to kill them. I’ve buried not a few. Besides, Christina’s fond of me, the devil knows why!” Madame Grandoni added.
“And you’re so good to her,” said the Prince, who laid his hand on her fat wrinkled fist.
“Che vuole? I’ve known her so long. And she has some such great qualities.”
“Ah, to whom do you say it?” And he gazed at his boots again, for some moments, in silence. Suddenly he resumed: “How does she look to-day?”