But
would I go away on Saturday or Sunday when she was coming on Monday? Not
I.
She came on Monday, surrounded by a gray halo, which had begun to grow
as beautiful to my vision as the delicate tints of early dawn. When she
began to read what she had last written, I seated myself in a chair by
the grating. When she had finished, I sat silent for a minute, got up
and walked about, came back, sat down, and was silent again. In my whole
mind there did not seem to be one crevice into which an available
thought concerning my travels could squeeze itself. She sat quietly
looking out of the window at the apple-tree. Presently she said:--
"I suppose you find it hard to begin work on Monday morning, after
having rested so long. It must be difficult to get yourself again into
the proper frame of mind."
"On this Monday morning," I answered, "I find it very hard indeed."
She turned, and for the first time that day fixed her eyes upon me. She
did not look well; she was pale.
"I had hoped," she said, with a little smile without any brightness in
it, "that you would finish the story of Tomaso and Lucilla; but I don't
believe you feel like composing, so how would you like me to read this
morning?"
"Nothing could suit me better," I answered; and in my heart I thought
that here was an angelic gift, a relief and a joy.
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