ettydomesticscenebetweenhimandthebaby,andshehasgotsweptoffinagushofsentimentalism.Beforeverylong,ifIknowanythingaboutpsychology,therewillbeareaction.She’llbesweptback.”
“Idon’tunderstandyourlongwords.Sayplainly—”
“Whenshe’ssweptback,she’llbeinvaluable.Forshehasmadequiteanimpressiononhim.Hethinkshersonicewiththebaby.Youknow,shewasheditforhim.”
“Disgusting!”
Harriet’sejaculationsweremoreaggravatingthantherestofher.ButPhilipwasaversetolosinghistemper.Theaccessofjoythathadcometohimyesterdayinthetheatrepromisedtobepermanent.Hewasmoreanxiousthanheretoforetobecharitabletowardstheworld.
“Ifyouwanttocarryoffthebaby,keepyourpeacewithMissAbbott.Forifshechooses,shecanhelpyoubetterthanIcan.”
“Therecanbenopeacebetweenmeandher,”saidHarrietgloomily.
“Didyou—”
“Oh,notallIwanted.ShewentawaybeforeIhadfinishedspeaking—justlikethosecowardlypeople!—intothechurch.”
“IntoSantaDeodata’s?”
“YesI’msuresheneedsit.Anythingmoreunchristian—”
IntimePhilipwenttothechurchalso,leavinghissisteralittlecalmerandalittledisposedtothinkoverhisadvice.WhathadcomeoverMissAbbott?Hehadalwaysthoughtherbothstableandsincere.ThatconversationhehadhadwithherlastChristmasinthetraintoCharingCross—thatalonefurnishedhimwithaparallel.Forthesecondtime,Monterianomusthaveturnedherhead.Hewasnotangrywithher,forhewasquiteindifferenttotheoutcomeoftheirexpedition.Hewasonlyextremelyinterested.
Itwasnownearlymidday,andthestreetswereclearing.Buttheintenseheathadbroken,andtherewasapleasantsuggestionofrain.ThePiazza,withitsthreegreatattractions—thePalazzoPubblico,theCollegiateChurch,andtheCaffeGaribaldi:theintellect,thesoul,andthebody—hadneverlookedmorecharming.ForamomentPhilipstoodinitscentre,muchinclinedtobedreamy,andthinkinghowwonderfulitmustfeeltobelongtoacity,howevermean.Hewashere,however,asanemissaryofcivilizationandasastudentofcharacter,and,afterasigh,heenteredSantaDeodata’stocontinuehismission.
TherehadbeenaFESTAtwodaysbefore,andthechurchstillsmeltofincenseandofgarlic.Thelittlesonofthesacristanwassweepingthenave,moreforamusementthanforcleanliness,sendinggreatcloudsofdustoverthefrescoesandthescatteredworshippers.ThesacristanhimselfhadproppedaladderinthecentreoftheDeluge—whichfillsoneofthenavespandrels—andwasfreeingacolumnfromitswealthofscarletcalico.Muchscarletcalicoalsolayuponthefloor—forthechurchcanlookasfineasanytheatre—andthesacristan’slittledaughterwastryingtofolditup.Shewaswearingatinselcrown.ThecrownreallybelongedtoSt.Augustine.Butithadbeencuttoobig:itfelldownoverhischeekslikeacollar:youneversawanythingsoabsurd.OneofthecanonshadunhookeditjustbeforetheFIESTAbegan,andhadgivenittothesacristan’sdaughter.
“Please,”criedPhilip,“isthereanEnglishladyhere?”
Theman’smouthwasfulloftin-tacks,buthenoddedcheerfullytowardsakneelingfigure.InthemidstofthisconfusionMissAbbottwaspraying.
Hewasnotmuchsurprised:aspiritualbreakdownwasquitetobeexpected