I will now read
in 'The Consolations of Boethius'--last of the Latin authors
properly so called--and smoke a cigar. I shall not see Giuseppe. I
have promised. It is understood that I am an invalid; but he will
certainly be hurt that I deny myself to him. The man has a heart as
well as a head."
He rose and went to a little bookshelf of his favourite authors.
Then he buried himself in Boethius, and Mark, looking out of the
window, saw the life of the lake and the glory of the summer sky
reflected. Beyond the shining water Bellagio's towers and cypresses
were massed under a little mountain. From time to time there sounded
the beat of paddle wheels, as the white steamers came and went.
* * * * *
Doria returned for a while during the afternoon, and Jenny told him
that her uncle was better but still thought it wise to keep his
room. Her husband appeared to have recovered his good temper. He
drank wine, ate fruit and addressed most of his conversation to
Brendon, who spoke with him in the dining-room for a while.
Pages:
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414