“THEY SEATED THEMSELVES ON THE BOTTOM STEPS FOR A GOOD LONG SCENE IN WHISPERS”
Novices, they played their parts according to romantic conventions known to both, beneath which the unconventional heart did in the case of each after its nature.
It appeared, as gradually as a flower fades on its stalk, that even he, even in vacation, had duties occasionally, engagements, pressing engagements sometimes, things that must be attended to for his father, or mother, or grandmother. He would have to consult his watch. Sometimes he could stay only a minute.
She asked him one day why he was in such a heavy humor, so silent. He asked sadly in reply how he could be different, living in a house where all were so deeply concerned over the condition of his poor grandmother. Added to this, his aunt was arriving to see her mother, and was bringing his cousins. They would take up his whole time for the next few days.
Camilla looked at him attentively. Murmuring, “My idol!” he drew her cheek down to his shoulder and imprisoned her hands in those pretty, dry, brown hands of his, which had the gift of pleasing her so much.
“La Caressante,” as it rang forth from her window on certain of those soft, summer mornings, might have been mistaken for a musical imitation of artillery sputtering amid the varied sounds of battle, “Les Soupirs” for the note-portrayal of a wreck tossed in a stormy swell.
One morning, with the affected briskness of a man who does his best to put a good face on a tiresome business, he said, “Expect me not, my Camilla, to-morrow. I am sent off to visit my married sister up at Vicchio. A sudden decision. My family, saying that I have grown thin, as I have, indeed, with the cruel anxiety of our secret, believe I need the change. A dreadful bore, but what can I do?”
“Another married sister? How many more married sisters, caro mio, have you in your pocket?”
“There is still another—three in all. I was born long after them, the only man-child, which gives an excuse to old friends of the family for saying that my parents spoil me. And I am sorry to tell you, Camilla, that you must not write to me there, for there is no such thing as poste restante. The letters are brought to the villa by a peasant and my sister distributes them. Nor shall I find it possible to write you, for I could not post a letter unknown.”