“Thank you!” the gentleman echoed. And then there was silence for a little while—a silence of tongues; but, with a ceaseless whirr and buzz, the flying train was casting the north behind, and plunging into the south like a bee into a flower.
Mr. Vane’s two daughters, twenty and twenty-two years of age, sat opposite him, each at a window, Isabel moving frequently, glancing here and there, and speaking whenever the spirit was stirred; Bianca, the younger, seeming to be in a trance. These two girls were as unlike in appearance as it is possible for two persons to be who have many points of resemblance. Both had fine dark eyes, dark hair, complexions of a clear, pale olive, and features sufficiently regular. Bianca was a trifle taller and finer in shape, and her manner had a gentle dignity, while her sister’s was lively and positive. Bianca’s mouth was fuller, sweeter, and more silent, and her voice softer. She had a more penetrating mind than most persons were aware of, and thought and observed more than she said. Isabel caught quickly at the surfaces of things, and had a clever way of weaving other people’s ideas into her talk that sometimes made her appear brilliant. It might be said that the impressions of the elder were cameo, those of the
younger intaglio. For the rest, let their story speak for them.
The father was a large, leisurely, middle-aged gentleman, whom critical people like to call indolent. He certainly had, as his elder daughter intimated, the faculty of finding a great many excellent reasons why he should not exert himself unnecessarily, and it is probable that he might never have been brought to the pitch of a trans-atlantic voyage but for Miss Isabel’s politic arguments in urging the matter.
“In Europe one can be so quiet,” she said. “One can live there without being tormented by the idea that one should be doing something for somebody. It isn’t considered necessary to have a mission. Everything happens half an hour or so after time, and everybody goes to sleep in the middle of the day—in the middle of the street, too, if they like. I’ve heard people say that it’s just delicious the way the clergy take their promenade there. Two of them will walk slowly along a few minutes, then stop and carry on their conversation a little while, as if they were in the Elysian Fields, then resume their walk, and so on, walking and pausing, in the most delightfully leisurely way. Fancy that in New York! Why, our idea of walking is to get one foot before the other as quickly as we can. Going out, we see only the spot we start from and the spot we arrive at, and we shoot from the one to the other as if we wore percussion-caps on our heads. Marion says that Italy is the fabled lotos, and that all the dust and dirt people talk so about is nothing but pollen.”
Mr. Vane, who in America felt himself like a drone in the midst of bees, could not resist this charming
picture, and we accordingly find him in the land of the lotos.
“Bianca,” her sister said presently, “do you remember the Goldsmith’s history of Rome we studied at school? I’ve forgotten every bit of it but the title, and an impression of great uncomfortable doings, and haranguing and attitudinizing, and killing. I recollect it was always a wonder to me when I found there were people enough left to begin a new chapter with. Now we are going to see the places. How glad I am we shall not see any of the tremendous people!”
She put her head out of the window and added: “I don’t find that the country looks any better than Massachusetts. But, for all that, I am enchanted to be here. How I have longed to come!”
“Indeed!” her father said, staring a little. “Why, then, did you not let us come six months ago, instead of clinging to London and Paris?”