“You ought not to be out of doors, Miss Ransome, when the sun is so nearly down.”
She turned and faced him, pale first with infinite pleasure, and then rosy to the roots of her flaxen hair.
“When did you come?” she asked eagerly. “Have you been long in Italy?”
“I only came through the St. Gothard last night, breakfasted at Locarno, and came here by road. I have not seen Mrs. Greswold yet. She is well, I hope?”
“She is not over-well. She frets dreadfully, I am afraid. It is so sad that she and Uncle George should be living apart for some mysterious reason which nobody knows. They were the most perfect couple.”
“Mrs. Greswold is a perfect woman.”
“And Uncle George has the finest character. His first marriage was unhappy, I believe; nobody ever talked about it. I think it was only just known in the family that he had married in Italy when he was a young man, and that his wife had died within a year. It was supposed that she could not have been nice, since nobody knew anything about her.”
“Rather hard upon the dead lady to be condemned by her husband’s silence. Will you take me to your aunt?”
“With pleasure. I think she ought to be charmed to see you, for we lead the most solitary existence here. My aunt has set her face against knowing anybody, in the hotel or out of it. And there have been some really charming people staying here; people one would go out of one’s way to know. Have you come here for your health?”
“For my pleasure only. I was sick to death of England and of cities. I longed to steep myself in the infinite and the beautiful. Those indigo clouds above the mountains yonder—with that bold splash of orange shining through the gorge—are worth the journey, were there no more than that; and when the wintry stars glass themselves in the lake by and by, ah! then one knows what it is to be the living, acting element in a world of passive beauty. And to think that there are men and women in London groping about in the fog, and fancying themselves alive!”