“I do believe it,” he said once more, in his deepest tone.
“Ah! you speak too low: I cannot hear you—which is an English not an Italian fault. But you are right to discriminate between happiness and amusement. We do so too, but we are not sufficiently particular about our words, and use the first that comes to hand.”
Then there was a pause, and this time it was he who began. “Is it true,” he said, “that this is soon to come to an end?—that you are going away?”
“I suppose we must go, sooner or later. Not perhaps with the Hunstantons; but people do not stay here for summer, do they? It is for winter one comes here?”
“I am no judge,” he said gravely, with that seriousness, on the verge of offence with which a man hears his own country criticised. “I have spent many summers here. You shut yourself up behind the persianis all day; but when evening comes—ah, Miss Trelawny! the night of summer that goes to the heart, as you say. I have never been in your country. I cannot tell if among the seas you can know. Ah, you smile! I am wrong; I can believe it. England is no more sombre when you—such as you—live there; but in Italy I would give—how much—a year! years—of my life that you might see one summer night. The air it is balm; so soft, so warm, so cool, so dark. The moon more lustrous than any day. And all the people out of doors. You who love the people it would make you glad. Upon the stairs and in the doorways, everywhere, all friendly, smiling, singing, feeling the air blow in their faces. How it has made me happy!—But now,—now——”
“You ought to be more happy than ever, Mr. Pandolfini,” said Diana, raising herself erect in her chair, turning round upon him with the courage the situation demanded, yet unable to keep a tremor of sympathy out of her voice, “now that your country has risen up again, and takes her place once more among the best.”
“I thank you for saying so—yes, I should be more happy; but, ecco, Miss Trelawny, we are not as we would. I have my senses, is it not true? I am not a child to stretch out my hands for what is beyond reach? Yet also, alas! I am that fool,—I am that child. My country?—I forget what I meant to say.”
“You are not well,” said Diana, troubled. “It is this hideous din. Oh no, I meant this beautiful music. You will be better when it is over.”
“Nay,” he said, the moisture coming into his eyes. “I like it; it makes a solitude. It might be that there was no one else in the world.”
All this was nothing. If Mr. Hunstanton had heard it, he would have said that Pandolfini was in one of his queer moods, and would have divined nothing of what lay below; but to most women this inference of adoration is more seductive than the most violent protestations. Even Diana felt herself yield a little to the charm. She had to make an effort to resist and escape from this fascination.