“Hewillhavetomarryher,”saidPhilip.“Iheardfromhimthismorning,justasweleftMilan.Hefindshehasgonetoofartobackout.Itwouldbeexpensive.Idon’tknowhowmuchheminds—notasmuchaswesuppose,Ithink.Atalleventsthere’snotawordofblameintheletter.Idon’tbelieveheevenfeelsangry.Ineverwassocompletelyforgiven.Eversinceyoustoppedhimkillingme,ithasbeenavisionofperfectfriendship.Henursedme,heliedformeattheinquest,andatthefuneral,thoughhewascrying,youwouldhavethoughtitwasmysonwhohaddied.CertainlyIwastheonlypersonhehadtobekindtohewassodistressednottomakeHarriet’sacquaintance,andthathescarcelysawanythingofyou.Inhisletterhesayssoagain.”
“Thankhim,please,whenyouwrite,”saidMissAbbott,“andgivehimmykindestregards.”
“IndeedIwill.”Hewassurprisedthatshecouldslideawayfromthemansoeasily.Forhisownpart,hewasboundbytiesofalmostalarmingintimacy.Ginohadthesouthernknackoffriendship.IntheintervalsofbusinesshewouldpulloutPhilip’slife,turnitinsideout,remodelit,andadvisehimhowtouseitforthebest.Thesensationwaspleasant,forhewasakindaswellasaskilfuloperator.ButPhilipcameawayfeelingthathehadnotasecretcornerleft.InthatveryletterGinohadagainimploredhim,asarefugefromdomesticdifficulties,“tomarryMissAbbott,evenifherdowryissmall.”AndhowMissAbbottherself,aftersuchtragicintercourse,couldresumetheconventionsandsendcalmmessagesofesteem,wasmorethanhecouldunderstand.
“Whenwillyouseehimagain?”sheasked.Theywerestandingtogetherinthecorridorofthetrain,slowlyascendingoutofItalytowardstheSanGothardtunnel.
“Ihopenextspring.PerhapsweshallpaintSienaredforadayortwowithsomeofthenewwife’smoney.Itwasoneoftheargumentsformarryingher.”
“Hehasnoheart,”shesaidseverely.“Hedoesnotreallymindaboutthechildatall.”
“Noyou’rewrong.Hedoes.Heisunhappy,liketherestofus.Buthedoesn’ttrytokeepupappearancesaswedo.Heknowsthatthethingsthathavemadehimhappyoncewillprobablymakehimhappyagain—”