In the last, written in English in the evening, she finished with these words: “Why do I not know seven languages? Then I should have written seven times to you to-day, because the same thing said in different languages seems different, and renews my joy in thinking of you. I should like to say I love you in all the languages in the world....”
At last he telegraphed his arrival, and she had been an hour at the station, walking up and down by the deserted rails.
She looked at her watch, then at the station clock; it seemed to her as if it must have stopped, so much like centuries did those minutes appear.
With her most pleasant smile she went to one of the officials:
“Is the train from Genoa late?”
“Yes, about ten minutes.”
How cruel those four words were! How she condemned in her heart Italian railways, engine drivers, directors, and shareholders, who by their negligence had inflicted another ten minutes upon her anxious waiting. She drew near the kiosk of newspapers and books, but without looking at anything; she bought flowers, but did not smell them; she kept her eyes turned toward Genoa, strained her ears, bit her lips, but the train came not.
In a moment a thousand fears flashed through her mind—the remembrance of the last collision, the many killed and injured————
She did not dare to go to the same official. She went to another, timid and full of fears. This time she did not succeed in smiling.