"_Sta bene_?"
He kissed her and relapsed into Shakespeare's tongue, for their
Italian, though firm and perfect as far as it went, could not be
considered as going far, and was useless for conversational purposes,
unless they merely wanted to greet each other, or to know the time. But
it was interesting to talk Italian, however little way it went.
"_Molto bene_," said he, "and it's delightful to have you home
again. And how was London?" he asked in the sort of tone in which he
might have enquired after the health of a poor relation, who was not
likely to recover. She smiled rather sadly.
"Terrifically busy about nothing," she said. "All this fortnight I have
scarcely had a moment to myself. Lunches, dinners, parties of all
kinds; I could not go to half the gatherings I was bidden to. Dear good
South Kensington! Chelsea too!"
"_Carissima_, when London does manage to catch you, it is no
wonder it makes the most of you," he said. "You mustn't blame London
for that."
"No, dear, I don't. Everyone was tremendously kind and hospitable; they
all did their best. If I blame anyone, I blame myself. But I think this
Riseholme life with its finish and its exquisiteness spoils one for
other places. London is like a railway-junction: it has no true life of
its own. There is no delicacy, no appreciation of fine shades.
Individualism has no existence there; everyone gabbles together,
gabbles and gobbles: am not I naughty? If there is a concert in a
private house--you know my views about music and the impossibility of
hearing music at all if you are stuck in the middle of a row of
people--even then, the moment it is over you are whisked away to supper,
or somebody wants to have a few words.
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