I said I thought it was too bad, and that it was pleasanter to think of men getting old with their families around them, and Sam thought so too.
We were out in the Cloister of Certosa. Cloisters are open squares that are surrounded by the buildings to which they belong, and they are in all the churches and monasteries and are always most lovely. After the sifted, gray light of a church, the sunlight and the beautiful green growing things that fill these spaces are almost too lovely. And usually a white or brown garbed monk—sometimes wearing no more than sandals, on his feet—stands in some archway or wanders back and forth in a loggia and this adds to the picture.
The cloister we looked on was centered by a well with a wrought iron top that has been copied a great deal, and after Sam had spoken of it, he—as he whittled at a stick—asked me whether I intended to marry. I said I hoped so, but that with women a lot depended upon whether any man asked them. That made him laugh, and he put his hand over mine.
“Some one’s bound to ask you,” he said, as he curled up my fingers in my palm and then undid them again, to do it all over—sometimes Sam is very restless—“but, Jane, do tell me any old thing won’t do!”
“Oh, I’d have to like him,” I said, for although I knew little about love, I felt certain of that. Then Mr. Wake appeared, and he frowned on us terribly. “Look here, children,” he said, “you know you mustn’t hold hands in a cloister—” (I laughed, but I got pink, for honestly, I hadn’t realized I was doing that. It only seemed natural and nice, and not anything about it made me conscious until that moment!) “You know,” Mr. Wake went on, “one of these old boys will see you, and wonder how the thing is done, and pop! some nice evening he’ll crawl over the wall, and hike down to Florence, and try to find a sweetheart. Then some jealous brother will see him come in late, and report, and there’ll be no end of a row. You want to think of these things!”
I tried to free my hand, but Sam held it too tightly, because, I think, he saw it teased me.
“Fra Lippo Lippi did that,” said Mr. Wake. “He used to skip over the wall almost every evening after dark. Then he’d come in late, and tiptoe through the corridors, carrying his shoes in his hands. Mr. Browning made a good story about it. Tell you, when you get down to it, there is nothing new under the sun! . . . Jane, am I going to have to speak sharply to you, about your conduct?” (He pretended I was holding Sam’s long hand)
“You’d better be nice to me,” I said, and I was really almost peevish, “because I’ve always tried to be nice to you, and I have a letter from my Miss Sheila, that’s awfully nice—”
“It’s a shame,” said Sam quickly—and I think he was sorry he had teased me; he is almost always very gentle with me—and he patted my hand, and returned it to my lap with a great deal of funny ceremony. Then I ordered him off, and he wandered across the cloister and stood there smoking and watching us. And then I read Mr. Wake the nice news.
“Well, what, dear child?” he asked, as I got out the letter.