“I thought,” said Lydia, “you were coming to Venice, too.”
“Oh, yes, but I shouldn't be able to see you there.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Why, because—” He was near telling the young girl who hung upon his arm, and walked up and down with him in the moonlight, that in the wicked Old World towards which they were sailing young people could not meet save in the sight and hearing of their elders, and that a confidential analysis of character would be impossible between them there. The wonder of her being where she was, as she was, returned upon him with a freshness that it had been losing in the custom of the week past. “Because you will be so much taken up with your friends,” he said, lamely. He added quickly, “There's one thing I should like to know, Miss Blood: did you hear what Mr. Dunham and I were saying, last night, when we stood in the gangway and kept you from coming up?”
Lydia waited a moment. Then she said, “Yes. I couldn't help hearing it.”
“That's all right. I don't care for your hearing what I said. But—I hope it wasn't true?”
“I couldn't understand what you meant by it,” she answered, evasively, but rather faintly.
“Thanks,” said Staniford. “I didn't mean anything. It was merely the guilty consciousness of a generally disagreeable person.” They walked up and down many turns without saying anything. She could not have made any direct protest, and it pleased him that she could not frame any flourishing generalities. “Yes,” Staniford resumed, “I will try to see you as I pass through Venice. And I will come to hear you sing when you come out at Milan.”
“Come out? At Milan?”
“Why, yes! You are going to study at the conservatory in Milan?”