Dazed, he passed a hand over his forehead, as if wishing to resume the direction of his tumultuous thoughts: he strove to impress there an energy that should arouse his lost will. But his thoughts and will lost themselves in great tumult and disorder around this idea, these words:
"If she were to come too; if she were to come with her."
Like an automaton he passed again into his room. With a rapid gesture he hid the unopened letter, the fifteenth, the last from Florence. He moved some chairs to occupy his hands; for a moment he leant with his burning forehead against the glass of his bookcase, hiding his face. But the sound of the bell in the anteroom startled him from his abandonment.
He jumped up, composed and tranquil, advanced to the door, and bowed deeply to Miss May Ford, who entered, announced by Francesco. Kissing the grey-gloved hand which the Englishwoman extended to him, he led her to a chair and sat down opposite her, turning his shoulders to the large lamp on the writing-table so as not to show his face. Dressed in grey with a black hat, Miss May Ford showed an imperturbable face, whence had escaped every expression of the amiability of a former time—a tranquil, cold, imperturbable face.
"Welcome to Florence, Miss Ford."
"How do you do, Signor Sabini? Are you quite well?"
"Yes—thanks."
"Have you been keeping well?"
"No," he murmured, "I have been indisposed for some time, for a month."
"Oh, dear," exclaimed Miss Ford, with a conventional intonation of regret. "I hope you are all right now."