The few days that yet remained of their voyage were falling in the latter half of September, and Staniford tried to make the young girl see the surpassing loveliness of that season under Italian skies; the fierceness of the summer is then past, and at night, when chiefly they inspected the firmament¹, the heaven has begun to assume something of the intense blue it wears in winter. She said yes, it was very beautiful, but she could not see that the days were finer, or the skies bluer, than those of September at home; and he laughed at her loyalty² to the American weather. “Don't you think so, too?” she asked, as if it pained her that he should like Italian weather better.  
“Oh, yes,—yes,” he said. Then he turned the talk on her, as he did whenever he could. “I like your meteorological patriotism³. If I were a woman, I should stand by America in everything.”
 
“Don't you as a man?” she pursued, still anxiously.
 
“Oh, certainly,” he answered. “But women owe our continent a double debt of fidelity⁴. It's the Paradise of women, it's their Promised Land, where they've been led up out of the Egyptian bondage⁵ of Europe. It's the home of their freedom. It is recognized in America that women have consciences and souls.”
 
Lydia looked very grave. “Is it—is it so different with women in Europe?” she faltered⁶.
 
“Very,” he replied, and glanced at her half-laughingly, half-tenderly.
 
After a while, “I wish you would tell me,” she said, “just what you mean. I wish you would tell me what is the difference.”
 
“Oh, it's a long story. I will tell you—when we get to Venice.” The well-worn jest served its purpose again; she laughed, and he continued: “By the way, just when will that be? The captain says that if this wind holds we shall be in Trieste by Friday afternoon. I suppose your friends will meet you there on Saturday, and that you'll go back with them to Venice at once.”
 
“Yes,” assented⁷ Lydia.
 
“Well, if I should come on Monday, would that be too soon?”
 
“Oh, no!” she answered. He wondered if she had been vaguely⁸ hoping that he might go directly on with her to Venice. They were together all day, now, and the long talks went on from early morning, when they met before breakfast on deck, until late at night, when they parted there, with blushed and laughed good-nights. Sometimes the trust she put upon his unspoken promises was terrible; it seemed to condemn⁹ his reticence¹⁰ as fantastic and hazardous¹¹. With her, at least, it was clear that this love was the first; her living and loving were one. He longed to testify the devotion which he felt, to leave it unmistakable and safe past accident; he thought of making ............