unsuccessfuldriver,whomitrequiredthecombinedeloquenceofthestation-masterandthestationbeggartoconfute.Thesilencewasprolongeduntiltheystarted.Forthreedayshehadbeenconsideringwhatheshoulddo,andstillmorewhatheshouldsay.Hehadinventedadozenimaginaryconversations,inallofwhichhislogicandeloquenceprocuredhimcertainvictory.Buthowtobegin?Hewasintheenemy’scountry,andeverything—thehotsun,thecoldairbehindtheheat,theendlessrowsofolive-trees,regularyetmysterious—seemedhostiletotheplacidatmosphereofSawstoninwhichhisthoughtstookbirth.Attheoutsethemadeonegreatconcession.Ifthematchwasreallysuitable,andLiliawerebentonit,hewouldgivein,andtrusttohisinfluencewithhismothertosetthingsright.HewouldnothavemadetheconcessioninEnglandbuthereinItaly,Lilia,howeverwilfulandsilly,wasatalleventsgrowingtobeahumanbeing.
“Arewetotalkitovernow?”heasked.
“Certainly,please,”saidMissAbbott,ingreatagitation.“Ifyouwillbesoverykind.”
“Thenhowlonghasshebeenengaged?”
Herfacewasthatofaperfectfool—afoolinterror.
“Ashorttime—quiteashorttime,”shestammered,asiftheshortnessofthetimewouldreassurehim.
“Ishouldliketoknowhowlong,ifyoucanremember.”
Sheenteredintoelaboratecalculationsonherfingers.“Exactlyelevendays,”shesaidatlast.
“Howlonghaveyoubeenhere?”
Morecalculations,whilehetappedirritablywithhisfoot.“Closeonthreeweeks.”
“Didyouknowhimbeforeyoucame?”
“No.”
“Oh!Whoishe?”
“Anativeoftheplace.”
Thesecondsilencetookplace.Theyhadlefttheplainnowandwereclimbinguptheoutpostsofthehills,theolive-treesstillaccompanying.Thedriver,ajollyfatman,hadgotouttoeasethehorses,andwaswalkingbythesideofthecarriage.
“Iunderstoodtheymetatthehotel.”
“ItwasamistakeofMrs.Theobald’s.”
“IalsounderstandthatheisamemberoftheItaliannobility.”
Shedidnotreply.
“MayIbetoldhisname?”
MissAbbottwhispered,“Carella.”Butthedriverheardher,andagrinsplitoverhisface.Theengagementmustbeknownalready.
“Carella?ConteorMarchese,orwhat?”
“Signor,”saidMissAbbott,andlookedhelplesslyaside.
“PerhapsIboreyouwiththesequestions.Ifso,Iwillstop.”
“Oh,no,pleasenotatall.Iamhere—myownidea—togiveallinformationwhichyouverynaturally—andtoseeifsomehow—pleaseaskanythingyoulike.”
“Thenhowoldishe?”
“Oh,quiteyoung.Twenty-one,Ibelieve.”
ThereburstfromPhiliptheexclamation,“GoodLord!”
“Onewouldneverbelieveit,”saidMissAbbott,flushing.“Helooksmucholder.”
“Andishegood-looking?”heasked,withgatheringsarcasm.
She