So these two friends, united by one of the closest ties on earth, lived and thought at cross purposes, for the simple reason that even of so fine a quality as reserve it is possible to have too much of a good thing.
And now an end of peaceful isolation. To-morrow they would cross to Menaggio homeward bound; and on this their last evening they climbed the cobblestoned, corkscrew of a path that winds to the ruins of Torre di Vezio above Varenna. The fine outlook from the summit was Desmond's favourite view of the lake. He himself had planned the outing, and now strode briskly ahead of his friend, with more of the old vigour and elasticity in his bearing than Paul had yet seen. To-day, too, for the first time, he had discarded the crepe band from the sleeve of his grey flannel suit; a silent admission that the spirit of resurrection had not called to him in vain.
Paul, noting these significant trifles, decided that he could have chosen no time more propitious for the thing he had to say. That morning's post had brought a letter from Sir John Meredith begging them both to come straight to his country house in Surrey for a week. Paul saw that invitation as Theo's God-given chance to discover the treasure that was his for the asking; and all day he had patiently awaited the given moment for speech. Now he recognised it, and did not intend to let it slip through his fingers.
The grey stone walls and towers of the Torre di Vezio stood four-square and rugged in the last of the sun; their battlements jewelled with fine mosaic work of lichens, their feet in the young grass of April starred with cowslips and late primroses. Near the old wooden door two cypresses stood sentinel, and the gnarled olives in the foreground loomed ancient and unresponsive as the walls themselves. The light wind of the morning had dropped with the sun; and the lake, far below them, showed delicately blurred mirages of townlets, hills, and sky. Southward, toward Como and Lecco, all was saturated in the magical blue atmosphere, the aura of Italy. Northward, toward Gravedona, the lesser Alps gloomed grey-violet under a mass of indigo cloud that blotted out the snows.
Theo Desmond, standing very erect, with the sun in his eyes, felt the peace and beauty of it all flow through his veins like wine.
"It's good to be up here. Very good. Sit down, old man."
Paul obeyed. They settled themselves on a green ledge near a bold outcrop of rock. Desmond, leaning forward, sunk his chin on his hand and fell into one of his brooding silences that had grown rarer of late.
So long it lasted that Paul began to fear he might lose the given moment after all. Yet every line of his friend's face and figure spelled peace; and he was loth to break the silence. Taking the letter from his pocket he opened it with ostentatious cracklings. He read it through twice, very leisurely; and still Desmond sat motionless, absorbed in the changing lights on the water and the hills. Then Paul gave it up and spoke.