Manisty thought the words particularly inappropriate. In all his experience of women he never remembered a more queenly and less childish composure than Lucy had been able to show him since their scene on the hill. It had enlarged all his conceptions of her. His passion for her was thereby stimulated and tormented, yet at the same time glorified in his own eyes. He saw in her already the grande dame of the future—that his labour, his ambitions, and his gifts should make of her.
If only Eleanor spoke the truth!
* * * * *
The following day Manisty, returning from a late walk with Father Benecke, parted from the priest on the hill, and mounted the garden stairway to the loggia.
Lucy was sitting there alone, her embroidery in her hands.
She had not heard him in the garden; and when he suddenly appeared she was not able to hide a certain agitation. She got up and began vaguely to put away her silks and thimble.
'I won't disturb you,' he said formally. 'Has Eleanor not come back?'
For Eleanor had been driving with the Contessa.
'Yes. But she has been resting since.'
'Don't let me interrupt you,' he said again.