There was nobody to consult or confide in; even the woman of mystery, who, for all her presumable sins, was at least sincerely attached to her, was absent, probably on some errand of dubious integrity. Not that such sorrow as this could be confided to anybody except by vague hints, though it might in some measure be divined by sympathy. Best to go home. She had been growing more and more home-sick of late, especially since that last and worst afternoon at the tables.
Presently the thin man emerged from the lemon-foliage, and, seeing her, raised his hat and passed on with friendly smile and halting step. He had been a father to her, but for this emergency was probably supplied with no paternal counsels. Pacing the walk on the monastery ridge under the cypresses, the spare figure of Mr. Mosson, the philanthropist, was visible. That benefactor to his species appeared to be absorbed as usual in his morning devotions, intently perusing the red book that Mr. Welbourne had pronounced to be no Book of Hours or Breviary, as she had rashly conjectured. Should she throw herself upon his charity, and seek balm of him for at least one of her troubles? That something must be done before long to this effect was absolutely certain. The eighteen-guinea serge gown could not well be pawned, besides having lost some of its pristine freshness in excursions on the Azure Shore, and the jewel-box was perilously near emptiness.
The American lady was kind and cordial; but a marked indisposition to plank down indiscriminate dollars had always formed a feature in an estimate of trans-Atlantic character as conceived from early childhood; moreover, divorce laws being so varied by locality, and so light-heartedly sought and obtained, in the United States, citizens of that Republic could not logically be credited with sound views upon matrimonial duties and relationships.
The only person whom it was possible to consult upon questions of that delicate complexion, besides being absent and unattainable, happened to be the very person whose conduct was arraigned for judgment, and the most rabid democrat has not yet gone so far as to allow the criminal to be his own judge and jury.
Suddenly a light step on the gravel and a blithe "Bon jour, Madame," broke this current of melancholy thought, and evoked responsive brightness on her clouded face, as the laughing eyes and gay personality of M. Isidore appeared above the sun-steeped flowers. Madame was perhaps too tired for the usual Italian lesson, he conjectured.
"Do I look tired?" she asked, smiling cheerfully, and heard that there was a shadow on her face as of one who had not slept well.
What depth of sympathetic insight in this charming young fellow, the general utility person of the hotel!
"I have not slept at all," she replied gaily. "I sat up reading all night. That is why I am haggard and fishy-eyed this morning."
The appropriateness of these adjectives was promptly and warmly denied, with remarks to the effect that some faces only acquire fresh and spiritualized charm under the shadow of fatigue. There was further, she heard in elegant idiomatic French, a special quality of beauty peculiar to sadness and another to gaiety. Madame, it was thoughtfully averred, usually gave the impression of possessing gaiety and joie de vivre.
"We all have our dark moods at times," she sighed, in Italian so outrageous that M. Isidore was obliged to repeat the sentence in an amended form, which he did with a sigh and an accent that made it the expression of his own intimate feelings.