She remembered her friend's letter, and the 'Signor Manisty' who should have married this sad, charming woman, and had not done so. It was easy to see that not only disease but grief was preying on Mrs. Burgoyne. The Contessa was old enough to be her mother. A daughter whom she had lost in infancy would have been Eleanor's age, if she had lived.
'Madame, let me give you a piece of advice'—she said suddenly, taking
Eleanor's hands in both her own—'leave this place. It does not suit you.
These rooms are too rough for you—or let me carry you off to the Palazzo,
where I could look after you.'
Eleanor flushed.
'This place is very good for me,' she said with a wild fluttering breath.
'To-day I feel so much better—so much lighter!'
The Contessa felt a pang. She had heard other invalids say such things before. The words rang like a dirge upon her ear. They talked a little longer. Then the Contessa rose, and Eleanor rose, too, in spite of her guest's motion to restrain her.
As they stood together the elder woman in her strength suddenly felt herself irresistibly drawn towards the touching weakness of the other. Instead of merely pressing hands, she quickly threw her strong arms round Mrs. Burgoyne, gathered her for an instant to her broad breast, and kissed her.
Eleanor leant against her, sighing:
'A vocation wouldn't drag me away,' she said gently.
And so they parted.
* * * * *