"Oh, yes! We are not committing ourselves in any way. We do not even particularly like him, with his pock-marked face and his dirty finger-nails. We merely accept his introductions. Do as we do. Or ... don't. Perhaps it will be better form if you don't. I ... I have become a great egoist, through travelling. What do I care?..."
The dark street seemed to invite confidences; and Cornélie to some extent understood this cynical indifference, particularly in a woman reared in narrow principles of duty and morality. It was certainly not good form; but was it not weariness brought about by the wear and tear of life? In any case she vaguely understood it: that tone of indifference, that careless shrugging of the shoulders....
They turned the corner of the Hôtel Massier and approached the Villa Medici. The full moon was pouring down its flood of white radiance and Rome lay in the flawless blue glamour of the night. Over-flowing the brimming basin of the fountain, beneath the black ilexes, whose leafage held the picture of Rome in an ebony frame, the waste water splashed and clattered.
"Rome must be very beautiful," said Cornélie, softly. Rudyard and the Baronesse had come nearer and heard what she said:
"Rome is beautiful," he said, earnestly. "And Rome is more. Rome is a great consolation to many people."
His words, spoken in the blue moonlit night, impressed her. The city seemed to lie in mystical billows at her feet. She looked at him, as he stood before her in his black coat, showing but little linen, the same stout, civil gentleman. His voice was very penetrating, with a rich note of conviction in it. She looked at him long, uncertain of herself and vaguely conscious of an approaching intimation, but still antipathetic.
Then he added, as though he did not wish her to meditate too deeply the words which he had uttered:
"A great consolation to many ... because beauty consoles."
And she thought his last words an æsthetic commonplace; but he had meant her to think so.