During the next few days which continued monotonously stormy, the two became quite well acquainted. Under Rodrigo's questioning, Woodward talked further about his own profession, in which he was deeply immersed and stood very high.
On deck one day he made the remark in a discussion of mental disorders that insanity comes often from too much introspection or the abandonment of the mind to a single obsession. On an impulse, Rodrigo told him of John Dorning's experience, making the case hypothetical and, of course, not mentioning names. Having stated the circumstances, he asked Dr. Woodward whether there was a chance that the victim might suffer a relapse and topple over the border-line or whether he might in time completely efface from his mind the harrowing event that had unbalanced him.
The psychiatrist pondered a moment and then answered, "I should say that if this man never learns anything definite about his wife's fate, that is, does not receive information that would give him a new shock, he will go on much as he is at present. I gather from what you say that he has made a partial recovery, so that he again finds life tolerable, but that he is in a measure living under the shadow of the initial shock. Well, that is not so bad. Most of us are concealing a major worry or two. On the other hand, this man's salvation probably lies in falling in love with another woman, a different type of woman from his former wife. That would be an almost sure way of healing his wound. And I should say that the chances of this happening are excellent, particularly if the man is being brought into daily contact with a woman of a sympathetic turn of mind. That's when men frequently fall in love, you know—when they have suffered tragedy and are desperately in need of the sort of sympathy only a woman can give."
Rodrigo suddenly abandoned the subject, for in this "woman of a sympathetic turn of mind" he had seen, in a flash, Mary. Would she and John, thrown together now, with John aching for someone to minister to his bruised mind, fall in love? Having, as he tortured himself into believing, lost Elise to John, would he now be called upon to give up Mary to his friend, as if in retribution? He made an excuse, arose abruptly and started to pace the deck. But this was foolishness, he told himself at length. What if Mary and Dorning should learn to love each other? It was natural. They had much in common. They were both fine, wonderful characters. And had he not virtually abandoned her, lost her by being what she termed a "coward," revealed to her he would never return?
He told himself savagely that he was the most selfish man in the world. And in the next moment he was praying silently that this thing would not happen, that the two people he loved best in the world would not fall in love with each other. His heart ached with a pain that was physical.
Just before they parted at Naples, whence Dr. Woodward was to entrain at once for Rome, the psychiatrist said half-seriously to Rodrigo, "I have been observing you all the way over, young man. It's a habit of my profession. You have something on your mind that is gnawing at it. Take my warning and get rid of it. Get drunk, get married, get anything—but forget it. Remember what I told you. Don't think too much. It's a bad habit."
Rodrigo walked alone along the crowded, dirty streets of the familiar city, which was bathed in a warmth and sunshine far different from the damp and cold that had remained with them the greater part of the voyage over. He secured a room at the Hotel Metropole and, upon awaking and dressing the next morning, strolled out upon the balcony of his room to hear the cries of his countrymen driving their carts past the hotel, the protesting shrieks of the miniature trolley cars as they crawled up the hilly streets of the city, the automobiles bustling about with reckless young Italian chauffeurs at the wheel, the old smell and the gay colors that he had grown up with.
He paid a visit before lunch to the real estate man who had the palace of the Torrianis in charge and was told by that brisk, sharp-faced individual that his cable had been received and that he was awaiting Rodrigo's word before renting the place again.
So it was that the heir of the Torrianis was bumped out to his palace in a hired automobile a few hours later and had the doubtful pleasure of strolling through the great empty rooms of the dwelling of his ancestors. The place had suffered a little from the American tenants who had occupied it. Some of the precious frescoes had been chipped, and the whole establishment was musty and dirty. Rodrigo prepared to leave the historic pile with a feeling of depression. Its sorry condition, contrasted with the spick-and-span modernity of the surroundings he had become accustomed to in New York, weakened whatever idea he might have had of settling there. Nevertheless, sentiment and his now comparative affluence demanded that he restore the palace to a habitable condition. He was therefore doubly glad, as well as surprised, to observe standing beside his rented conveyance a familiar, corpulent female form as he came out.
Maria had been talking excitedly to the chauffeur and now came waddling up to meet her former master. A smile covered her wide and usually stolid face. Rodrigo greeted her heartily and learned from the torrent of words that came from her toothless mouth that she was working in a neighboring villa, which, like the palace of the Torrianis, had been rented by Americans. But, she explained, her Americans were leaving. Had Master Rodrigo come home for good? Would he, perhaps, want old Maria again? She had many times, after the departure of Rodrigo's American tenants, tried to get into the place to clean it. But the pig of a real estate man had refused her a key—her, Maria! Rodrigo, upon the spot, hired her as the permanent caretaker of the palace and turned over to her the massive keys to the outer gate and to the main entrance of the building. She beamed at him as he stepped into the ancient automobile. She shouted blessings upon his head until he disappeared over the hill in a cloud of dust.