“He will have to marry her,” said Philip. “I heard from him this morning, just as we left Milan. He finds he has gone too far to back out. It would be expensive. I don’t know how much he minds—not as much as we suppose, I think. At all events there’s not a word of blame in the letter. I don’t believe he even feels angry. I never was so completely forgiven. Ever since you stopped him killing¹ me, it has been a vision of perfect friendship. He nursed me, he lied for me at the inquest, and at the funeral, though he was crying, you would have thought it was my son who had died. Certainly I was the only person he had to be kind to; he was so distressed² not to make Harriet’s acquaintance, and that he scarcely saw anything of you. In his letter he says so again.”  
“Thank him, please, when you write,” said Miss Abbott, “and give him my kindest regards.”
 
“Indeed I will.” He was surprised that she could slide away from the man so easily. For his own part, he was bound by ties of almost alarming intimacy³. Gino had the southern knack⁴ of friendship. In the intervals⁵ of business he would pull out Philip’s life, turn it inside out, remodel⁶ it, and advise him how to use it for the best. The sensation was pleasant, for he was a kind as well as a skilful⁷ operator. But Philip came away feeling that he had not a secret corner left. In that very letter Gino had again implored⁸ him, as a refuge from domestic difficulties, “to marry Miss Abbott, even if her dowry is small.” And how Miss Abbott herself, after such tragic⁹ intercourse¹⁰, could resume the conventions and send calm messages of esteem¹¹, was more than he could understand.
 
“When will you see him again?” she asked. They were standing¹² together in the corridor of the train, slowly ascending¹³ out of Italy towards the San Gothard tunnel.
 
“I hope next spring. Perhaps we shall paint Siena red for a day or two with some of the new wife’s money. It was one of the arguments for marrying her.”
 
“He has no heart,” she said severely¹⁴. “He does not really mind about the child at all.”
 
“No; you’re wrong. He does. He is unhappy, like the rest of us. But he doesn’t try to keep up appearances as we do. He knows that the things that have made him happy once will probably make him happy again—”
 
“He said he would never be happy again.”
 
“In his passion. Not when he was calm. We English say it when we are calm—when we do not really believe it any longer. Gino is not ashamed of inconsistency. It is one of the many things I like him for.”
 
“Yes; I was wrong. That is so.”
 
“He’s much more honest with himself than I am,” continued Philip, “and he is honest without an effort and without pride. But you, Miss Abbott, what about you? Will you be in Italy next spring?”
 
“No.”
 
“I’m sorry. When will you come back, do you think?”
 
“I think never.”
 
“For whatever reason?” He stared at her as if she were some monstrosity.
 
“Because I understand the place. There is no need.”
 
“Understand Italy!” he exclaimed.
 
“Perfectly.”
 
“Well, I don’t. And I don’t understand you,” he murmured to himself, as he paced away from her up the corridor. By this time he loved her very much, and he could not bear to be puzzled. He had reached love by the spiritual path: her thoughts and her goodness and her nobility had moved him first, and now her whole body and all its gestures had become transfigured by them. The beauties that are called obvious—the beauties of her hair and her voice and her limbs—he had noticed these last; Gino, who never traversed any path at all, had commended them dispassionately to his friend.
 
Why was he so puzzling? He had known so much about her once—what she thought, how she felt, the reasons for her actions. And now he only knew that he loved her, and all the other knowledge seemed passing from him just as he needed it most. Why would she never come to Italy again? Why had she avoided himself and Gino ever since the evening that she had saved their lives? The train was nearly empty. Harriet slumbered¹⁵ in a compartment¹⁶ by herself. He must ask her these questions now, and he returned quickly to her down the corridor.
 
She greeted him with a question of her own. “Are your plans decided¹⁷?”
 
“Yes. I can’t live at Sawston.”
 
“Have you told Mrs. Herriton?”
 
“I wrote from Monteriano. I tried to explain things; but she will never understand me. Her view will be that the affair is settled—sadly settled since the baby is dead. Still it’s over; our family circle need be vexed¹⁸ no more. She won’t even be angry with you. You see, you have done us no harm in the long run. Unless, of course, you talk about Harriet and make a scandal. So that is my plan—London and work. What is yours?”
 
“Poor Harriet!” said Miss Abbott. “As if I dare judge Harriet! Or anybody.” And without replying to Philip’s question she left him to visit the other invalid¹⁹.
 
Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then he looked mournfully out of the window at the decreasing streams. All the excitement was over—the inquest, Harriet’s short illness, his own visit to the surgeon. He was convalescent, both in body and spirit, but convalescence²⁰ brought no joy. In the looking-glass at the end of the corridor he saw his face haggard, and his shoulders pulled forward by the weight of the sling²¹. Life was greater than he had supposed, but it was even less complete. He had seen the need for strenuous²² work and for righteousness. And now he saw what a very little way those things would go.
 
“Is Harriet going to be all right?” he asked. Miss Abbott had come back to him.
 
“She will soon be her old self,” was the reply. For Harriet, after a short paroxysm of illness and remorse²³, was quickly returning to her normal state. She had been “thoroughly upset” as she phrased it, but she soon ceased to realize that anything was wrong beyond the death of a poor little child. Already she spoke²⁴ of “this unlucky accident,” and “the mysterious frustration²⁵ of one’s attempts to make things better.” Miss Abbott had seen that she was comfortable, and had given her a kind kiss. But she returned feeling that Harriet, like her mother, considered the affair as settled.
 
“I’m clear enough about Harriet’s future, and about parts of my own. But I ask again, What about yours?”
 
“Sawston and work,” said Miss Abbott.
 
“No.”
 
“Why not?” she asked, smiling.
 
“You’ve seen too much. You’ve seen as much and done more than I have.”
 
“But it’s so different. Of course I shall go to Sawston. You forget my father; and even if he wasn’t there, I’ve a hundred ties: my district—I’m neglecting it shamefully—my evening classes, the St. James’—”
 
“Silly nonsense!” he exploded, suddenly moved to have the whole thing out with her. “You’re too good—about a thousand times better than I am. You can’t live in that hole; you must go among people who can hope to understand you. I mind for myself. I want to see you often—again and again.”
 
“Of course we shall meet whenever you come down; and I hope that it will mean often.”
 
“It’s not enough; it’ll only be in the old horrible way, each with a dozen relatives round us. No, Miss Abbott; it’s not good enough.”
 
“We can write at all events.”
 
“You will write?” he cried, with a flush of pleasure. At times his hopes seemed so solid.
 
“I will indeed.”
 
“But I say it’s not enough—you can’t go back to the old life if you wanted to. Too much has happened.”
 
“I know that,” she said sadly.
 
“Not only pain and sorrow, but wonderful things: that tower in the sunlight—do you remember it, and all you said to me? The theatre, even. And the next day—in the church; and our times with Gino.”
 
“All the wonderful things are over,” she said. &ldquo............