She looked at him gravely and squinted. ’ ‘What, even less delightful than Gerald?’ enquired Lucilla, her eyes dancing. But she had loved the man. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. She came to adore them. It would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses. It was then that the young man entered his thought with some permanency: because there was no apparent reason for his joining the tour, since from the beginning he had shown no interest in anything. After a series of mental gymnastics—occupying the space of a few seconds—it came to him with a shock that here was a new specimen of the species. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting.
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