ithher.“You’retoogood—aboutathousandtimesbetterthanIam.Youcan’tliveinthatholeyoumustgoamongpeoplewhocanhopetounderstandyou.Imindformyself.Iwanttoseeyouoften—againandagain.”
“OfcourseweshallmeetwheneveryoucomedownandIhopethatitwillmeanoften.”
“It’snotenoughit’llonlybeintheoldhorribleway,eachwithadozenrelativesroundus.No,MissAbbottit’snotgoodenough.”
“Wecanwriteatallevents.”
“Youwillwrite?”hecried,withaflushofpleasure.Attimeshishopesseemedsosolid.
“Iwillindeed.”
“ButIsayit’snotenough—youcan’tgobacktotheoldlifeifyouwantedto.Toomuchhashappened.”
“Iknowthat,”shesaidsadly.
“Notonlypainandsorrow,butwonderfulthings:thattowerinthesunlight—doyourememberit,andallyousaidtome?Thetheatre,even.Andthenextday—inthechurchandourtimeswithGino.”
“Allthewonderfulthingsareover,”shesaid.“Thatisjustwhereitis.”
“Idon’tbelieveit.Atalleventsnotforme.Themostwonderfulthingsmaybetocome—”
“Thewonderfulthingsareover,”sherepeated,andlookedathimsomournfullythathedarenotcontradicther.ThetrainwascrawlingupthelastascenttowardstheCampanileofAiroloandtheentranceofthetunnel.
“MissAbbott,”hemurmured,speakingquickly,asiftheirfreeintercoursemightsoonbeended,“whatisthematterwithyou?IthoughtIunderstoodyou,andIdon’t.AllthosetwogreatfirstdaysatMonterianoIreadyouasclearlyasyoureadmestill.Isawwhyyouhadcome,andwhyyouchangedsides,andafterwardsIsawyourwonderfulcourageandpity.Andnowyou’refrankwithmeonemoment,asyouusedtobe,andthenextmomentyoushutmeup.YouseeIowetoomuchtoyou—mylife,andIdon’tknowwhatbesides.Iwon’tstandit.You’vegonetoofartoturnmysterious.I’llquotewhatyousaidtome:‘Don’tbemysteriousthereisn’tthetime.’I’llquotesomethingelse:‘IandmylifemustbewhereIlive.’Youcan’tliveatSawston.”
Hehadmovedheratlast.Shewhisperedtoherselfhurriedly.“Itistempting—”Andthosethreewordsthrewhimintoatumultofjoy.Whatwastemptingtoher?Afterallwasth