I did not like to ask her, for that would
seem like a trick to make her speak.
But it would not do to keep her sitting there with an idle pen in her
hand. I must say something, so I blurted out some remarks concerning the
effect of the climate of the Mediterranean upon travelers from northern
countries; and while doing this I tried my best to remember where, on
the shores of this confounded sea, I had been the day before.
Philosophizing and generalizing were, however, not in my line: I was
accustomed to deal with action and definite observation, and I soon
dropped the climate of the Mediterranean, and went to work on some of
the soul-harrowing improvements in the Eternal City, alluding with
particular warmth to the banishment of the models from the Spanish
Stairs. Now the work went on easily, but I was gloomy and depressed. My
nun sat at the table, more like a stiff gray-enveloped principle than
ever before. I did not feel at liberty even to make a remark about the
temperature of the room. I feared that whatever I said might be
construed into an attempt to presume upon the accidental intercourse of
the day before.
For half an hour or more she went on with the work, but, during a pause
in my dictation, she sat up straight in her chair and laid down her pen.
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