prompt:
Chapter: "Mad!" screamed Harriet,--"absolutely stark, staring, raving mad!"

Philip judged it better not to contradict her.

"What's she here for? Answer me that. What's she doing in Monteriano in
August? Why isn't she in Normandy? Answer that. She won't. I can: she's
come to thwart us; she's betrayed us--got hold of mother's plans. Oh,
goodness, my head!"

He was unwise enough to reply, "You mustn't accuse her of that. Though
she is exasperating, she hasn't come here to betray us."

"Then why has she come here? Answer me that."

He made no answer. But fortunately his sister was too much agitated
to wait for one. "Bursting in on me--crying and looking a disgusting
sight--and says she has been to see the Italian. Couldn't even talk
properly; pretended she had changed her opinions. What are her opinions
to us? I was very calm. I said: 'Miss Abbott, I think there is a
little misapprehension in this matter. My mother, Mrs. Herriton--' Oh,
goodness, my head! Of course you've failed--don't trouble to answer--I
know you've failed. Where's the baby, pray? Of course you haven't got
it. Dear sweet Caroline won't let you. Oh, yes, and we're to go away at
once and trouble the father no more. Those are her commands. Commands!
COMMANDS!" And Harriet also burst into tears.

Philip governed his temper. His sister was annoying, but quite
reasonable in her indignation. Moreover, Miss Abbott had behaved even
worse than she supposed.

"I've not got the baby, Harriet, but at the same time I haven't
exactly failed. I and Signor Carella are to have another interview
this afternoon, at the Caffe Garibaldi. He is perfectly reasonable and
pleasant. Should you be disposed to come with me, you would find him
quite willing to discuss things. He is desperately in want of money, and
has no prospect of getting any. I discovered that. At the same time, he
has a certain affection for the child." For Philip's insight, or perhaps
his opportunities, had not been equal to Miss Abbott's.

Harriet would only sob, and accuse her brother of insulting her; how
could a lady speak to such a horrible man? That, and nothing else, was
enough to stamp Caroline. Oh, poor Lilia!

Philip drummed on the bedroom window-sill. He saw no escape from the
deadlock. For though he spoke cheerfully about his second interview with
Gino, he felt at the bottom of his heart that it would fail. Gino was
too courteous: he would not break off negotiations by sharp denial; he
loved this civil, half-humorous bargaining. And he loved fooling his
opponent, and did it so nicely that his opponent did not mind being
fooled.

"Miss Abbott has behaved extraordinarily," he said at last; "but at the
same time--"

His sister would not hear him. She burst forth again on the madness, the
interference, the intolerable duplicity of Caroline.

"Harriet, you must listen. My dear, you must stop crying. I have
something quite important to say."

"I shall not stop crying," said she. But in time, finding that he would
not speak to her, she did stop.

"Remember that Miss Abbott has done us no harm. She said nothing to him
about the matter. He assumes that she is working with us: I gathered
that."

"Well, she isn't."

"Yes; but if you're careful she may be. I interpret her behaviour thus:
She went to see him, honestly intending to get the child away. In the
note she left me she says so, and I don't believe she'd lie."

"I do."

"When she got there, there was some pretty domestic scene between him
and the baby, and she has got swept off in a gush of sentimentalism.
Before very long, if I know anything about psychology, there will be a
reaction. She'll be swept back."

"I don't understand your long words. Say plainly--"

"When she's swept back, she'll be invaluable. For she has made quite an
impression on him. He thinks her so nice with the baby. You know, she
washed it for him."

"Disgusting!"

Harriet's ejaculations were more aggravating than the rest of her. But
Philip was averse to losing his temper. The access of joy that had come
to him yesterday in the theatre promised to be permanent. He was more
anxious than heretofore to be charitable towards the world.

"If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with Miss Abbott.
For if she chooses, she can help you better than I can."

"There can be no peace between me and her," said Harriet gloomily.

"Did you--"

"Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finished
speaking--just like those cowardly people!--into the church."

"Into Santa Deodata's?"

"Yes; I'm sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian--"

In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a little
calmer and a little disposed to think over his advice. What had come
over Miss Abbott? He had always thought her both stable and sincere.
That conversation he had had with her last Christmas in the train to
Charing Cross--that alone furnished him with a parallel. For the second
time, Monteriano must have turned her head. He was not angry with her,
for he was quite indifferent to the outcome of their expedition. He was
only extremely interested.

It was now nearly midday, and the streets were clearing. But the intense
heat had broken, and there was a pleasant suggestion of rain. The
Piazza, with its three great attractions--the Palazzo Pubblico, the
Collegiate Church, and the Caffe Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul, and
the body--had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood in
its centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and thinking how wonderful it
must feel to belong to a city, however mean. He was here, however, as
an emissary of civilization and as a student of character, and, after a
sigh, he entered Santa Deodata's to continue his mission.

There had been a FESTA two days before, and the church still smelt of
incense and of garlic. The little son of the sacristan was sweeping the
nave, more for amusement than for cleanliness, sending great clouds
of dust over the frescoes and the scattered worshippers. The sacristan
himself had propped a ladder in the centre of the Deluge--which fills
one of the nave spandrels--and was freeing a column from its wealth of
scarlet calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon the floor--for the
church can look as fine as any theatre--and the sacristan's little
daughter was trying to fold it up. She was wearing a tinsel crown. The
crown really belonged to St. Augustine. But it had been cut too big:
it fell down over his cheeks like a collar: you never saw anything so
absurd. One of the canons had unhooked it just before the FIESTA began,
and had given it to the sacristan's daughter.

"Please," cried Philip, "is there an English lady here?"

The man's mouth was full of tin-tacks, but he nodded cheerfully towards
a kneeling figure. In the midst of this confusion Miss Abbott was
praying.

He was not much surprised: a spiritual breakdown was quite to be
expected. For though he was growing more charitable towards mankind,
he was still a little jaunty, and too apt to stake out beforehand the
course that will be pursued by the wounded soul. It did not surprise
him, however, that she should greet him naturally, with none of the sour
self-consciousness of a person who had just risen from her knees. This
was indeed the spirit of Santa Deodata's, where a prayer to God is
thought none the worse of because it comes next to a pleasant word to
a neighbour. "I am sure that I need it," said she; and he, who had
expected her to be ashamed, became confused, and knew not what to reply.

"I've nothing to tell you," she continued. "I have simply changed
straight round. If I had planned the whole thing out, I could not have
treated you worse. I can talk it over now; but please believe that I
have been crying."

"And please believe that I have not come to scold you," said Philip. "I
know what has happened."

"What?" asked Miss Abbott. Instinctively she led the way to the famous
chapel, the fifth chapel on the right, wherein Giovanni da Empoli has
painted the death and burial of the saint. Here they could sit out of
the dust and the noise, and proceed with a discussion which promised to
be important.

"What might have happened to me--he had made you believe that he loved
the child."

"Oh, yes; he has. He will never give it up."

"At present it is still unsettled."

"It will never be settled."

"Perhaps not. Well, as I said, I know what has happened, and I am not
here to scold you. But I must ask you to withdraw from the thing for the
present. Harriet is furious. But she will calm down when she realizes
that you have done us no harm, and will do none."

"I can do no more," she said. "But I tell you plainly I have changed
sides."

"If you do no more, that is all we want. You promise not to prejudice
our cause by speaking to Signor Carella?"

"Oh, certainly. I don't want to speak to him again; I shan't ever see
him again."

"Quite nice, wasn't he?"

"Quite."

"Well, that's all I wanted to know. I'll go and tell Harriet of your
promise, and I think things'll quiet down now."

But he did not move, for it was an increasing pleasure to him to be
near her, and her charm was at its strongest today. He thought less of
psychology and feminine reaction. The gush of sentimentalism which had
carried her away had only made her more alluring. He was content to
observe her beauty and to profit by the tenderness and the wisdom that
dwelt within her.

"Why aren't you angry with me?" she asked, after a pause.

"Because I understand you--all sides, I think,--Harriet, Signor Carella,
even my mother."

"You do understand wonderfully. You are the only one of us who has a
general view of the muddle."

He smiled with pleasure. It was the first time she had ever praised
him. His eyes rested agreeably on Santa Deodata, who was dying in full
sanctity, upon her back. There was a window open behind her, revealing
just such a view as he had seen that morning, and on her widowed
mother's dresser there stood just such another copper pot. The saint
looked neither at the view nor at the pot, and at her widowed mother
still less. For lo! she had a vision: the head and shoulders of St.
Augustine were sliding like some miraculous enamel along the rough-cast
wall. It is a gentle saint who is content with half another saint to see
her die. In her death, as in her life, Santa Deodata did not accomplish
much.

"So what are you going to do?" said Miss Abbott.

Philip started, not so much at the words as at the sudden change in the
voice. "Do?" he echoed, rather dismayed. "This afternoon I have another
interview."

"It will come to nothing. Well?"

"Then another. If that fails I shall wire home for instructions. I dare
say we may fail altogether, but we shall fail honourably."

She had often been decided. But now behind her decision there was a note
of passion. She struck him not as different, but as more important, and
he minded it very much when she said--

"That's not doing anything! You would be doing something if you
kidnapped the baby, or if you went straight away. But that! To fail
honourably! To come out of the thing as well as you can! Is that all you
are after?"

"Why, yes," he stammered. "Since we talk openly, that is all I am after
just now. What else is there? If I can persuade Signor Carella to give
in, so much the better. If he won't, I must report the failure to my
mother and then go home. Why, Miss Abbott, you can't expect me to follow
you through all these turns--"

"I don't! But I do expect you to settle what is right and to follow
that. Do you want the child to stop with his father, who loves him and
will bring him up badly, or do you want him to come to Sawston, where
no one loves him, but where he will be brought up well? There is the
question put dispassionately enough even for you. Settle it. Settle
which side you'll fight on. But don't go talking about an 'honourable
failure,' which means simply not thinking and not acting at all."

"Because I understand the position of Signor Carella and of you, it's no
reason that--"

"None at all. Fight as if you think us wrong. Oh, what's the use of your
fair-mindedness if you never decide for yourself? Any one gets hold of
you and makes you do what they want. And you see through them and laugh
at them--and do it. It's not enough to see clearly; I'm muddle-headed
and stupid, and not worth a quarter of you, but I have tried to do
what seemed right at the time. And you--your brain and your insight are
splendid. But when you see what's right you're too idle to do it. You
told me once that we shall be judged by our intentions, not by our
accomplishments. I thought it a grand remark. But we must intend to
accomplish--not sit intending on a chair."

"You are wonderful!" he said gravely.

"Oh, you appreciate me!" she burst out again. "I wish you didn't. You
appreciate us all--see good in all of us. And all the time you are
dead--dead--dead. Look, why aren't you angry?" She came up to him, and
then her mood suddenly changed, and she took hold of both his hands.
"You are so splendid, Mr. Herriton, that I can't bear to see you wasted.
I can't bear--she has not been good to you--your mother."

"Miss Abbott, don't worry over me. Some people are born not to do
things. I'm one of them; I never did anything at school or at the Bar.
I came out to stop Lilia's marriage, and it was too late. I came out
intending to get the baby, and I shall return an 'honourable failure.' I
never expect anything to happen now, and so I am never disappointed.
You would be surprised to know what my great events are. Going to the
theatre yesterday, talking to you now--I don't suppose I shall ever
meet anything greater. I seem fated to pass through the world without
colliding with it or moving it--and I'm sure I can't tell you whether
the fate's good or evil. I don't die--I don't fall in love. And if other
people die or fall in love they always do it when I'm just not there.
You are quite right; life to me is just a spectacle, which--thank God,
and thank Italy, and thank you--is now more beautiful and heartening
than it has ever been before."

She said solemnly, "I wish something would happen to you, my dear
friend; I wish something would happen to you."

"But why?" he asked, smiling. "Prove to me why I don't do as I am."

She also smiled, very gravely. She could not prove it. No argument
existed. Their discourse, splendid as it had been, resulted in nothing,
and their respective opinions and policies were exactly the same when
they left the church as when they had entered it.

Harriet was rude at lunch. She called Miss Abbott a turncoat and a
coward to her face. Miss Abbott resented neither epithet, feeling that
one was justified and the other not unreasonable. She tried to avoid
even the suspicion of satire in her replies. But Harriet was sure
that she was satirical because she was so calm. She got more and more
violent, and Philip at one time feared that she would come to blows.

"Look here!" he cried, with something of the old manner, "it's too
hot for this. We've been talking and interviewing each other all the
morning, and I have another interview this afternoon. I do stipulate for
silence. Let each lady retire to her bedroom with a book."

"I retire to pack," said Harriet. "Please remind Signor Carella, Philip,
that the baby is to be here by half-past eight this evening."

"Oh, certainly, Harriet. I shall make a point of reminding him."

"And order a carriage to take us to the evening train."

"And please," said Miss Abbott, "would you order a carriage for me too?"

"You going?" he exclaimed.

"Of course," she replied, suddenly flushing. "Why not?"

"Why, of course you would be going. Two carriages, then. Two carriages
for the evening train." He looked at his sister hopelessly. "Harriet,
whatever are you up to? We shall never be ready."

"Order my carriage for the evening train," said Harriet, and departed.

"Well, I suppose I shall. And I shall also have my interview with Signor
Carella."

Miss Abbott gave a little sigh.

"But why should you mind? Do you suppose that I shall have the slightest
influence over him?"

"No. But--I can't repeat all that I said in the church. You ought never
to see him again. You ought to bundle Harriet into a carriage, not this
evening, but now, and drive her straight away."

"Perhaps I ought. But it isn't a very big 'ought.' Whatever Harriet and
I do the issue is the same. Why, I can see the splendour of it--even the
humour. Gino sitting up here on the mountain-top with his cub. We come
and ask for it. He welcomes us. We ask for it again. He is equally
pleasant. I'm agreeable to spend the whole week bargaining with him. But
I know that at the end of it I shall descend empty-handed to the
plains. It might be finer of me to make up my mind. But I'm not a fine
character. And nothing hangs on it."

"Perhaps I am extreme," she said humbly. "I've been trying to run you,
just like your mother. I feel you ought to fight it out with Harriet.
Every little trifle, for some reason, does seem incalculably important
today, and when you say of a thing that 'nothing hangs on it,' it sounds
like blasphemy. There's never any knowing--(how am I to put it?)--which
of our actions, which of our idlenesses won't have things hanging on it
for ever."

He assented, but her remark had only an aesthetic value. He was not
prepared to take it to his heart. All the afternoon he rested--worried,
but not exactly despondent. The thing would jog out somehow. Probably
Miss Abbott was right. The baby had better stop where it was loved. And
that, probably, was what the fates had decreed. He felt little interest
in the matter, and he was sure that he had no influence.

It was not surprising, therefore, that the interview at the Caffe
Garibaldi came to nothing. Neither of them took it very seriously. And
before long Gino had discovered how things lay, and was ragging his
companion hopelessly. Philip tried to look offended, but in the end
he had to laugh. "Well, you are right," he said. "This affair is being
managed by the ladies."

"Ah, the ladies--the ladies!" cried the other, and then he roared like
a millionaire for two cups of black coffee, and insisted on treating his
friend, as a sign that their strife was over.

"Well, I have done my best," said Philip, dipping a long slice of sugar
into his cup, and watching the brown liquid ascend into it. "I shall
face my mother with a good conscience. Will you bear me witness that
I've done my best?"

"My poor fellow, I will!" He laid a sympathetic hand on Philip's knee.

"And that I have--" The sugar was now impregnated with coffee, and he
bent forward to swallow it. As he did so his eyes swept the opposite of
the Piazza, and he saw there, watching them, Harriet. "Mia sorella!" he
exclaimed. Gino, much amused, laid his hand upon the little table, and
beat the marble humorously with his fists. Harriet turned away and began
gloomily to inspect the Palazzo Pubblico.

"Poor Harriet!" said Philip, swallowing the sugar. "One more wrench and
it will all be over for her; we are leaving this evening."

Gino was sorry for this. "Then you will not be here this evening as you
promised us. All three leaving?"

"All three," said Philip, who had not revealed the secession of Miss
Abbott; "by the night train; at least, that is my sister's plan. So I'm
afraid I shan't be here."

They watched the departing figure of Harriet, and then entered upon the
final civilities. They shook each other warmly by both hands. Philip
was to come again next year, and to write beforehand. He was to be
introduced to Gino's wife, for he was told of the marriage now. He was
to be godfather to his next baby. As for Gino, he would remember some
time that Philip liked vermouth. He begged him to give his love to Irma.
Mrs. Herriton--should he send her his sympathetic regards? No; perhaps
that would hardly do.

So the two young men parted with a good deal of genuine affection. For
the barrier of language is sometimes a blessed barrier, which only lets
pass what is good. Or--to put the thing less cynically--we may be better
in new clean words, which have never been tainted by our pettiness or
vice. Philip, at all events, lived more graciously in Italian, the very
phrases of which entice one to be happy and kind. It was horrible to
think of the English of Harriet, whose every word would be as hard, as
distinct, and as unfinished as a lump of coal.

Harriet, however, talked little. She had seen enough to know that her
brother had failed again, and with unwonted dignity she accepted the
situation. She did her packing, she wrote up her diary, she made a brown
paper cover for the new Baedeker. Philip, finding her so amenable, tried
to discuss their future plans. But she only said that they would sleep
in Florence, and told him to telegraph for rooms. They had supper
alone. Miss Abbott did not come down. The landlady told them that Signor
Carella had called on Miss Abbott to say good-bye, but she, though in,
had not been able to see him. She also told them that it had begun
to rain. Harriet sighed, but indicated to her brother that he was not
responsible.

The carriages came round at a quarter past eight. It was not raining
much, but the night was extraordinarily dark, and one of the drivers
wanted to go slowly to the station. Miss Abbott came down and said that
she was ready, and would start at once.

"Yes, do," said Philip, who was standing in the hall. "Now that we have
quarrelled we scarcely want to travel in procession all the way down the
hill. Well, good-bye; it's all over at last; another scene in my pageant
has shifted."

"Good-bye; it's been a great pleasure to see you. I hope that won't
shift, at all events." She gripped his hand.

"You sound despondent," he said, laughing. "Don't forget that you return
victorious."

"I suppose I do," she replied, more despondently than ever, and got into
the carriage. He concluded that she was thinking of her reception at
Sawston, whither her fame would doubtless precede her. Whatever would
Mrs. Herriton do? She could make things quite unpleasant when she
thought it right. She might think it right to be silent, but then there
was Harriet. Who would bridle Harriet's tongue? Between the two of
them Miss Abbott was bound to have a bad time. Her reputation, both for
consistency and for moral enthusiasm, would be lost for ever.

"It's hard luck on her," he thought. "She is a good person. I must do
for her anything I can." Their intimacy had been very rapid, but he too
hoped that it would not shift. He believed that he understood her,
and that she, by now, had seen the worst of him. What if after a
long time--if after all--he flushed like a boy as he looked after her
carriage.

He went into the dining-room to look for Harriet. Harriet was not to
be found. Her bedroom, too, was empty. All that was left of her was
the purple prayer-book which lay open on the bed. Philip took it up
aimlessly, and saw--"Blessed be the Lord my God who teacheth my hands to
war and my fingers to fight." He put the book in his pocket, and began
to brood over more profitable themes.

Santa Deodata gave out half past eight. All the luggage was on, and
still Harriet had not appeared. "Depend upon it," said the landlady,
"she has gone to Signor Carella's to say good-bye to her little nephew."
Philip did not think it likely. They shouted all over the house and
still there was no Harriet. He began to be uneasy. He was helpless
without Miss Abbott; her grave, kind face had cheered him wonderfully,
even when it looked displeased. Monteriano was sad without her; the rain
was thickening; the scraps of Donizetti floated tunelessly out of the
wineshops, and of the great tower opposite he could only see the base,
fresh papered with the advertisements of quacks.

A man came up the street with a note. Philip read, "Start at once. Pick
me up outside the gate. Pay the bearer. H. H."

"Did the lady give you this note?" he cried.

The man was unintelligible.

"Speak up!" exclaimed Philip. "Who gave it you--and where?"

Nothing but horrible sighings and bubblings came out of the man.

"Be patient with him," said the driver, turning round on the box. "It is
the poor idiot." And the landlady came out of the hotel and echoed "The
poor idiot. He cannot speak. He takes messages for us all."

Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald,
with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose. In another country he would
have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and
part of Nature's scheme.

"Ugh!" shuddered the Englishman. "Signora padrona, find out from him;
this note is from my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her?"

"It is no good," said the landlady. "He understands everything but he
can explain nothing."

"He has visions of the saints," said the man who drove the cab.

"But my sister--where has she gone? How has she met him?"

"She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It was a nasty
evening, but she was beginning to understand the English. "She has gone
for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to
come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and
is waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this."

There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with
the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After
a dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and
whimpering behind.

"Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty."

A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the
idiot's malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was
the change out of the nickel piece.

"Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was
frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was
a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the
terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the
Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass.

"What am I to do?" he cried; "it is not like the lady to be late. We
shall miss the train."

"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name
as we go."

So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet!
Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first
turn of the zigzag.

"Harriet, why don't you answer?"

"I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he
see that she carried a bundle.

"What's that?"

"Hush--"

"Whatever is that?"

"Hush--sleeping."

Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was
the baby.

She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she
put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He should
hear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful
interview--an interview between the South pole and the North. It was
quite easy to conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense
conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a
villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing.
"Poor Gino," he thought. "He's no greater than I am, after all."

Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending the
darkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusation
failed. She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feel
it again when she knew this day's sombre and unexpected close.

"You have been pretty secret," he said; "you might tell me a little now.
What do we pay for him? All we've got?"

"Hush!" answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like some
bony prophetess--Judith, or Deborah, or Jael. He had last seen the baby
sprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty
miles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. And
that remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and the
poor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the
expectation of sorrow to come.

Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but the
occasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp illumined as they
passed it. They travelled quickly, for this driver did not care how fast
he went to the station, and would dash down each incline and scuttle
perilously round the curves.

"Look here, Harriet," he said at last, "I feel bad; I want to see the
baby."

"Hush!"

"I don't mind if I do wake him up. I want to see him. I've as much right
in him as you."

Harriet gave in. But it was too dark for him to see the child's face.
"Wait a minute," he whispered, and before she could stop him he had
lit a match under the shelter of her umbrella. "But he's awake!" he
exclaimed. The match went out.

"Good ickle quiet boysey, then."

Philip winced. "His face, do you know, struck me as all wrong."

"All wrong?"

"All puckered queerly."

"Of course--with the shadows--you couldn't see him."

"Well, hold him up again." She did so. He lit another match. It went out
quickly, but not before he had seen that the baby was crying.

"Nonsense," said Harriet sharply. "We should hear him if he cried."

"No, he's crying hard; I thought so before, and I'm certain now."

Harriet touched the child's face. It was bathed in tears. "Oh, the night
air, I suppose," she said, "or perhaps the wet of the rain."

"I say, you haven't hurt it, or held it the wrong way, or anything;
it is too uncanny--crying and no noise. Why didn't you get Perfetta to
carry it to the hotel instead of muddling with the messenger? It's a
marvel he understood about the note."

"Oh, he understands." And he could feel her shudder. "He tried to carry
the baby--"

"But why not Gino or Perfetta?"

"Philip, don't talk. Must I say it again? Don't talk. The baby wants
to sleep." She crooned harshly as they descended, and now and then she
wiped up the tears which welled inexhaustibly from the little eyes.
Philip looked away, winking at times himself. It was as if they were
travelling with the whole world's sorrow, as if all the mystery, all the
persistency of woe were gathered to a single fount. The roads were
now coated with mud, and the carriage went more quietly but not less
swiftly, sliding by long zigzags into the night. He knew the landmarks
pretty well: here was the crossroad to Poggibonsi; and the last view of
Monteriano, if they had light, would be from here. Soon they ought to
come to that little wood where violets were so plentiful in spring. He
wished the weather had not changed; it was not cold, but the air was
extraordinarily damp. It could not be good for the child.

"I suppose he breathes, and all that sort of thing?" he said.

"Of course," said Harriet, in an angry whisper. "You've started him
again. I'm certain he was asleep. I do wish you wouldn't talk; it makes
me so nervous."

"I'm nervous too. I wish he'd scream. It's too uncanny. Poor Gino! I'm
terribly sorry for Gino."

"Are you?"

"Because he's weak--like most of us. He doesn't know what he wants. He
doesn't grip on to life. But I like that man, and I'm sorry for him."

Naturally enough she made no answer.

"You despise him, Harriet, and you despise me. But you do us no good
by it. We fools want some one to set us on our feet. Suppose a really
decent woman had set up Gino--I believe Caroline Abbott might have done
it--mightn't he have been another man?"

"Philip," she interrupted, with an attempt at nonchalance, "do you
happen to have those matches handy? We might as well look at the baby
again if you have."

The first match blew out immediately. So did the second. He suggested
that they should stop the carriage and borrow the lamp from the driver.

"Oh, I don't want all that bother. Try again."

They entered the little wood as he tried to strike the third match.
At last it caught. Harriet poised the umbrella rightly, and for a full
quarter minute they contemplated the face that trembled in the light of
the trembling flame. Then there was a shout and a crash. They were lying
in the mud in darkness. The carriage had overturned.

Philip was a good deal hurt. He sat up and rocked himself to and fro,
holding his arm. He could just make out the outline of the carriage
above him, and the outlines of the carriage cushions and of their
luggage upon the grey road. The accident had taken place in the wood,
where it was even darker than in the open.

"Are you all right?" he managed to say. Harriet was screaming, the horse
was kicking, the driver was cursing some other man.

Harriet's screams became coherent. "The baby--the baby--it slipped--it's
gone from my arms--I stole it!"

"God help me!" said Philip. A cold circle came round his mouth, and, he
fainted.

When he recovered it was still the same confusion. The horse was
kicking, the baby had not been found, and Harriet still screamed like a
maniac, "I stole it! I stole it! I stole it! It slipped out of my arms!"

"Keep still!" he commanded the driver. "Let no one move. We may tread on
it. Keep still."

For a moment they all obeyed him. He began to crawl through the mud,
touching first this, then that, grasping the cushions by mistake,
listening for the faintest whisper that might guide him. He tried to
light a match, holding the box in his teeth and striking at it with the
uninjured hand. At last he succeeded, and the light fell upon the bundle
which he was seeking.

It had rolled off the road into the wood a little way, and had fallen
across a great rut. So tiny it was that had it fallen lengthways it
would have disappeared, and he might never have found it.

"I stole it! I and the idiot--no one was there." She burst out laughing.

He sat down and laid it on his knee. Then he tried to cleanse the face
from the mud and the rain and the tears. His arm, he supposed, was
broken, but he could still move it a little, and for the moment he
forgot all pain. He was listening--not for a cry, but for the tick of a
heart or the slightest tremor of breath.

"Where are you?" called a voice. It was Miss Abbott, against whose
carriage they had collided. She had relit one of the lamps, and was
picking her way towards him.

"Silence!" he called again, and again they obeyed. He shook the bundle;
he breathed into it; he opened his coat and pressed it against him. Then
he listened, and heard nothing but the rain and the panting horses, and
Harriet, who was somewhere chuckling to herself in the dark.

Miss Abbott approached, and took it gently from him. The face was
already chilly, but thanks to Philip it was no longer wet. Nor would it
again be wetted by any tear.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When Philip returns to the hotel, Harriet is all worked up because Miss Abbott had burst into her room in tears to say that she had changed her mind and wouldn't let them take the baby. Philip admits to Harriet that Gino had indeed refused to give up the child, but that they're meeting a second time later in the afternoon to talk about other ways the family might help out with the baby. Philip goes to look for Miss Abbott, who has taken refuge at Santa Deodata Church. He tells Caroline that he's not angry with her, and that he's meeting Gino soon in a final attempt to give him money for the baby. But if that doesn't work, then he'll just head back to England. Miss Abbott suddenly becomes angry at Gino's indifference to the situation. She criticizes him for sitting idly by and not choosing a side to fight for. Philip is hurt by her accusation, but also recognizes that she's right in sensing that he doesn't care about the baby's fate. Miss Abbott's honesty impresses Philip and his feelings for her grow stronger. Back at the hotel, Harriet tells Philip that they will be taking the evening train out of Florence and that he must have the baby by half-past eight. But the afternoon meeting with Gino doesn't lead to anything--Gino still refuses to give up his son, and Philip is ready to let the matter rest, feeling that there's nothing more he can to. The two men part on good terms, and Philip actually feels genuine affection for Gino. Philip and Miss Abbott prepare to leave for the station, but they can't find Harriet anywhere in the hotel. Shortly before it's time for them to catch the train, Harriet sends a note to Philip, telling him to pick her up just outside the gate to the village. He doesn't understand what she means, but he takes the first carriage to find her, and Miss Abbott follows him in the second carriage. As the carriage pulls up to the gate, Philip sees Harriet holding a bundle in her arms. She has succeeded where Philip and Miss Abbott had failed--she has the baby! Philip presses her with questions--how did she manage it? How was she able to convince Gino? But Harriet tells Philip to be quiet; the baby is sleeping. Philip assumes she had successfully bargained with Gino, and he's willing to wait to hear the details later. The carriage is driving slightly too fast around the curvy road, which is muddy from the recent rain. And as Philip and Harriet examine the baby, who appears to be distressed and is crying silently, there is a loud shout followed by a crash. They have collided with Miss Abbott's carriage, and tumbled out onto the road. Philip's arm is in pain and appears to be broken. Harriet is screaming uncontrollably, and Philip is horrified when her screams become coherent: "The baby--it slipped--I stole it!" . Philip finds a bundle "lying in the mud in darkness" : the baby has been killed.


prompt:
Chapter: The details of Harriet's crime were never known. In her illness
she spoke more of the inlaid box that she lent to Lilia--lent, not
given--than of recent troubles. It was clear that she had gone prepared
for an interview with Gino, and finding him out, she had yielded to a
grotesque temptation. But how far this was the result of ill-temper, to
what extent she had been fortified by her religion, when and how she had
met the poor idiot--these questions were never answered, nor did they
interest Philip greatly. Detection was certain: they would have been
arrested by the police of Florence or Milan, or at the frontier. As it
was, they had been stopped in a simpler manner a few miles out of the
town.

As yet he could scarcely survey the thing. It was too great. Round the
Italian baby who had died in the mud there centred deep passions and
high hopes. People had been wicked or wrong in the matter; no one save
himself had been trivial. Now the baby had gone, but there remained this
vast apparatus of pride and pity and love. For the dead, who seemed
to take away so much, really take with them nothing that is ours. The
passion they have aroused lives after them, easy to transmute or to
transfer, but well-nigh impossible to destroy. And Philip knew that he
was still voyaging on the same magnificent, perilous sea, with the sun
or the clouds above him, and the tides below.

The course of the moment--that, at all events, was certain. He and no
one else must take the news to Gino. It was easy to talk of Harriet's
crime--easy also to blame the negligent Perfetta or Mrs. Herriton at
home. Every one had contributed--even Miss Abbott and Irma. If one
chose, one might consider the catastrophe composite or the work of fate.
But Philip did not so choose. It was his own fault, due to acknowledged
weakness in his own character. Therefore he, and no one else, must take
the news of it to Gino.

Nothing prevented him. Miss Abbott was engaged with Harriet, and people
had sprung out of the darkness and were conducting them towards some
cottage. Philip had only to get into the uninjured carriage and order
the driver to return. He was back at Monteriano after a two hours'
absence. Perfetta was in the house now, and greeted him cheerfully.
Pain, physical and mental, had made him stupid. It was some time before
he realized that she had never missed the child.

Gino was still out. The woman took him to the reception-room, just as
she had taken Miss Abbott in the morning, and dusted a circle for him on
one of the horsehair chairs. But it was dark now, so she left the guest
a little lamp.

"I will be as quick as I can," she told him. "But there are many streets
in Monteriano; he is sometimes difficult to find. I could not find him
this morning."

"Go first to the Caffe Garibaldi," said Philip, remembering that this
was the hour appointed by his friends of yesterday.

He occupied the time he was left alone not in thinking--there was
nothing to think about; he simply had to tell a few facts--but in trying
to make a sling for his broken arm. The trouble was in the elbow-joint,
and as long as he kept this motionless he could go on as usual. But
inflammation was beginning, and the slightest jar gave him agony. The
sling was not fitted before Gino leapt up the stairs, crying--

"So you are back! How glad I am! We are all waiting--"

Philip had seen too much to be nervous. In low, even tones he told what
had happened; and the other, also perfectly calm, heard him to the end.
In the silence Perfetta called up that she had forgotten the baby's
evening milk; she must fetch it. When she had gone Gino took up the lamp
without a word, and they went into the other room.

"My sister is ill," said Philip, "and Miss Abbott is guiltless. I should
be glad if you did not have to trouble them."

Gino had stooped down by the way, and was feeling the place where his
son had lain. Now and then he frowned a little and glanced at Philip.

"It is through me," he continued. "It happened because I was cowardly
and idle. I have come to know what you will do."

Gino had left the rug, and began to pat the table from the end, as if
he was blind. The action was so uncanny that Philip was driven to
intervene.

"Gently, man, gently; he is not here."

He went up and touched him on the shoulder.

He twitched away, and began to pass his hands over things more
rapidly--over the table, the chairs, the entire floor, the walls as high
as he could reach them. Philip had not presumed to comfort him. But now
the tension was too great--he tried.

"Break down, Gino; you must break down. Scream and curse and give in for
a little; you must break down."

There was no reply, and no cessation of the sweeping hands.

"It is time to be unhappy. Break down or you will be ill like my sister.
You will go--"

The tour of the room was over. He had touched everything in it except
Philip. Now he approached him. He face was that of a man who has lost
his old reason for life and seeks a new one.

"Gino!"

He stopped for a moment; then he came nearer. Philip stood his ground.

"You are to do what you like with me, Gino. Your son is dead, Gino. He
died in my arms, remember. It does not excuse me; but he did die in my
arms."

The left hand came forward, slowly this time. It hovered before Philip
like an insect. Then it descended and gripped him by his broken elbow.

Philip struck out with all the strength of his other arm. Gino fell to
the blow without a cry or a word.

"You brute!" exclaimed the Englishman. "Kill me if you like! But just
you leave my broken arm alone."

Then he was seized with remorse, and knelt beside his adversary and
tried to revive him. He managed to raise him up, and propped his body
against his own. He passed his arm round him. Again he was filled with
pity and tenderness. He awaited the revival without fear, sure that both
of them were safe at last.

Gino recovered suddenly. His lips moved. For one blessed moment it
seemed that he was going to speak. But he scrambled up in silence,
remembering everything, and he made not towards Philip, but towards the
lamp.

"Do what you like; but think first--"

The lamp was tossed across the room, out through the loggia. It broke
against one of the trees below. Philip began to cry out in the dark.

Gino approached from behind and gave him a sharp pinch. Philip spun
round with a yell. He had only been pinched on the back, but he knew
what was in store for him. He struck out, exhorting the devil to fight
him, to kill him, to do anything but this. Then he stumbled to the door.
It was open. He lost his head, and, instead of turning down the stairs,
he ran across the landing into the room opposite. There he lay down on
the floor between the stove and the skirting-board.

His senses grew sharper. He could hear Gino coming in on tiptoe. He even
knew what was passing in his mind, how now he was at fault, now he
was hopeful, now he was wondering whether after all the victim had not
escaped down the stairs. There was a quick swoop above him, and then
a low growl like a dog's. Gino had broken his finger-nails against the
stove.

Physical pain is almost too terrible to bear. We can just bear it when
it comes by accident or for our good--as it generally does in modern
life--except at school. But when it is caused by the malignity of a
man, full grown, fashioned like ourselves, all our control disappears.
Philip's one thought was to get away from that room at whatever
sacrifice of nobility or pride.

Gino was now at the further end of the room, groping by the little
tables. Suddenly the instinct came to him. He crawled quickly to where
Philip lay and had him clean by the elbow.

The whole arm seemed red-hot, and the broken bone grated in the joint,
sending out shoots of the essence of pain. His other arm was pinioned
against the wall, and Gino had trampled in behind the stove and was
kneeling on his legs. For the space of a minute he yelled and yelled
with all the force of his lungs. Then this solace was denied him. The
other hand, moist and strong, began to close round his throat.

At first he was glad, for here, he thought, was death at last. But
it was only a new torture; perhaps Gino inherited the skill of his
ancestors--and childlike ruffians who flung each other from the towers.
Just as the windpipe closed, the hand fell off, and Philip was revived
by the motion of his arm. And just as he was about to faint and gain at
last one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle
instead against the pressure on his throat.

Vivid pictures were dancing through the pain--Lilia dying some months
back in this very house, Miss Abbott bending over the baby, his mother
at home, now reading evening prayers to the servants. He felt that he
was growing weaker; his brain wandered; the agony did not seem so great.
Not all Gino's care could indefinitely postpone the end. His yells and
gurgles became mechanical--functions of the tortured flesh rather than
true notes of indignation and despair. He was conscious of a horrid
tumbling. Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything
was quiet at last.

"But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son is
dead."

The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders,
holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle, and
her arms were trembling.

"What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain?"

He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip,
whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss
Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave
a loud and curious cry--a cry of interrogation it might be called. Below
there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby's milk.

"Go to him," said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. "Pick him up. Treat
him kindly."

She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling
with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up.

"Help! help!" moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino.
It could not bear to be touched by him.

Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott
herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.

"Oh, the foul devil!" he murmured. "Kill him! Kill him for me."

Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she
said gravely to them both, "This thing stops here."

"Latte! latte!" cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs.

"Remember," she continued, "there is to be no revenge. I will have no
more intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more."

"I shall never forgive him," sighed Philip.

"Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!" Perfetta came in with
another lamp and a little jug.

Gino spoke for the first time. "Put the milk on the table," he said.
"It will not be wanted in the other room." The peril was over at last.
A great sob shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave a
piercing cry of woe, and stumbled towards Miss Abbott like a child and
clung to her.

All through the day Miss Abbott had seemed to Philip like a goddess, and
more than ever did she seem so now. Many people look younger and more
intimate during great emotion. But some there are who look older, and
remote, and he could not think that there was little difference in
years, and none in composition, between her and the man whose head was
laid upon her breast. Her eyes were open, full of infinite pity and
full of majesty, as if they discerned the boundaries of sorrow, and saw
unimaginable tracts beyond. Such eyes he had seen in great pictures but
never in a mortal. Her hands were folded round the sufferer, stroking
him lightly, for even a goddess can do no more than that. And it seemed
fitting, too, that she should bend her head and touch his forehead with
her lips.

Philip looked away, as he sometimes looked away from the great pictures
where visible forms suddenly become inadequate for the things they have
shown to us. He was happy; he was assured that there was greatness in
the world. There came to him an earnest desire to be good through the
example of this good woman. He would try henceforward to be worthy of
the things she had revealed. Quietly, without hysterical prayers or
banging of drums, he underwent conversion. He was saved.

"That milk," said she, "need not be wasted. Take it, Signor Carella, and
persuade Mr. Herriton to drink."

Gino obeyed her, and carried the child's milk to Philip. And Philip
obeyed also and drank.

"Is there any left?"

"A little," answered Gino.

"Then finish it." For she was determined to use such remnants as lie
about the world.

"Will you not have some?"

"I do not care for milk; finish it all."

"Philip, have you had enough milk?"

"Yes, thank you, Gino; finish it all."

He drank the milk, and then, either by accident or in some spasm of
pain, broke the jug to pieces. Perfetta exclaimed in bewilderment. "It
does not matter," he told her. "It does not matter. It will never be
wanted any more."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: After the crash, Harriet becomes mentally unstable, but the details of her crime are never revealed. Philip goes alone to tell Gino of his child's death. Gino is beside himself with anger and turns to violence, attacking Philip by twisting the arm he broke in the crash until he passes out from the pain. Gino is close to killing Philip when Miss Abbott arrives and comes between the two men. By the time Philip regains consciousness, Miss Abbott has been able to calm Gino down and prevent the situation from resulting in even more pain. In an effort to help the men forgive each other, Miss Abbott asks Gino to bring Philip a bottle of milk that has been warmed for his dead child and persuade Philip to drink it. Philip obeys and Miss Abbott then tells Gino to finish the rest of the milk.


prompt:
Chapter: "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 killing 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 distressed 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
intimacy. Gino had the southern knack of friendship. In the intervals
of business he would pull out Philip's life, turn it inside out,
remodel it, and advise him how to use it for the best. The sensation was
pleasant, for he was a kind as well as a skilful operator. But Philip
came away feeling that he had not a secret corner left. In that
very letter Gino had again implored him, as a refuge from domestic
difficulties, "to marry Miss Abbott, even if her dowry is small." And
how Miss Abbott herself, after such tragic intercourse, could resume
the conventions and send calm messages of esteem, was more than he could
understand.

"When will you see him again?" she asked. They were standing together in
the corridor of the train, slowly ascending 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 severely. "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 slumbered in
a compartment 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 decided?"

"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 vexed 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 invalid.

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 convalescence 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 sling. Life was
greater than he had supposed, but it was even less complete. He had seen
the need for strenuous 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 remorse, 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 spoke of "this unlucky accident," and
"the mysterious frustration 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. "That is just where it
is."

"I don't believe it. At all events not for me. The most wonderful things
may be to come--"

"The wonderful things are over," she repeated, and looked at him so
mournfully that he dare not contradict her. The train was crawling up
the last ascent towards the Campanile of Airolo and the entrance of the
tunnel.

"Miss Abbott," he murmured, speaking quickly, as if their free
intercourse might soon be ended, "what is the matter with you? I
thought I understood you, and I don't. All those two great first days at
Monteriano I read you as clearly as you read me still. I saw why you
had come, and why you changed sides, and afterwards I saw your wonderful
courage and pity. And now you're frank with me one moment, as you used
to be, and the next moment you shut me up. You see I owe too much to
you--my life, and I don't know what besides. I won't stand it. You've
gone too far to turn mysterious. I'll quote what you said to me: 'Don't
be mysterious; there isn't the time.' I'll quote something else: 'I and
my life must be where I live.' You can't live at Sawston."

He had moved her at last. She whispered to herself hurriedly. "It is
tempting--" And those three words threw him into a tumult of joy. What
was tempting to her? After all was the greatest of things possible?
Perhaps, after long estrangement, after much tragedy, the South had
brought them together in the end. That laughter in the theatre, those
silver stars in the purple sky, even the violets of a departed spring,
all had helped, and sorrow had helped also, and so had tenderness to
others.

"It is tempting," she repeated, "not to be mysterious. I've wanted often
to tell you, and then been afraid. I could never tell any one else,
certainly no woman, and I think you're the one man who might understand
and not be disgusted."

"Are you lonely?" he whispered. "Is it anything like that?"

"Yes." The train seemed to shake him towards her. He was resolved that
though a dozen people were looking, he would yet take her in his
arms. "I'm terribly lonely, or I wouldn't speak. I think you must know
already." Their faces were crimson, as if the same thought was surging
through them both.

"Perhaps I do." He came close to her. "Perhaps I could speak instead.
But if you will say the word plainly you'll never be sorry; I will thank
you for it all my life."

She said plainly, "That I love him." Then she broke down. Her body was
shaken with sobs, and lest there should be any doubt she cried between
the sobs for Gino! Gino! Gino!

He heard himself remark "Rather! I love him too! When I can forget how
he hurt me that evening. Though whenever we shake hands--" One of them
must have moved a step or two, for when she spoke again she was already
a little way apart.

"You've upset me." She stifled something that was perilously near
hysterics. "I thought I was past all this. You're taking it wrongly. I'm
in love with Gino--don't pass it off--I mean it crudely--you know what I
mean. So laugh at me."

"Laugh at love?" asked Philip.

"Yes. Pull it to pieces. Tell me I'm a fool or worse--that he's a cad.
Say all you said when Lilia fell in love with him. That's the help
I want. I dare tell you this because I like you--and because you're
without passion; you look on life as a spectacle; you don't enter it;
you only find it funny or beautiful. So I can trust you to cure me.
Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny?" She tried to laugh herself, but became
frightened and had to stop. "He's not a gentleman, nor a Christian, nor
good in any way. He's never flattered me nor honoured me. But because
he's handsome, that's been enough. The son of an Italian dentist, with
a pretty face." She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm against
passion. "Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny!" Then, to his relief, she
began to cry. "I love him, and I'm not ashamed of it. I love him, and
I'm going to Sawston, and if I mayn't speak about him to you sometimes,
I shall die."

In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but of
her. He did not lament. He did not even speak to her kindly, for he saw
that she could not stand it. A flippant reply was what she asked and
needed--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed it was the
only reply he could trust himself to make.

"Perhaps it is what the books call 'a passing fancy'?"

She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as far
as she knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once
aroused, were sure. "If I saw him often," she said, "I might remember
what he is like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so
nothing can alter me now."

"Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all, he could say
what he wanted.

"Oh, you shall know quick enough--"

"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"

"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she
had hoped.

"That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of them together.
Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once sent
forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the
world could not escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in
common?"

"Nothing except the times we have seen each other." Again her face was
crimson. He turned his own face away.

"Which--which times?"

"The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of you to
get the baby. That began it, as far as I know the beginning. Or it may
have begun when you took us to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with
music and light. But didn't understand till the morning. Then you opened
the door--and I knew why I had been so happy. Afterwards, in the church,
I prayed for us all; not for anything new, but that we might just be as
we were--he with the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of
the place--and that I might never see him or speak to him again. I could
have pulled through then--the thing was only coming near, like a wreath
of smoke; it hadn't wrapped me round."

"But through my fault," said Philip solemnly, "he is parted from the
child he loves. And because my life was in danger you came and saw
him and spoke to him again." For the thing was even greater than she
imagined. Nobody but himself would ever see round it now. And to see
round it he was standing at an immense distance. He could even be glad
that she had once held the beloved in her arms.

"Don't talk of 'faults.' You're my friend for ever, Mr. Herriton, I
think. Only don't be charitable and shift or take the blame. Get over
supposing I'm refined. That's what puzzles you. Get over that."

As he spoke she seemed to be transfigured, and to have indeed no part
with refinement or unrefinement any longer. Out of this wreck there was
revealed to him something indestructible--something which she, who had
given it, could never take away.

"I say again, don't be charitable. If he had asked me, I might have
given myself body and soul. That would have been the end of my rescue
party. But all through he took me for a superior being--a goddess. I
who was worshipping every inch of him, and every word he spoke. And that
saved me."

Philip's eyes were fixed on the Campanile of Airolo. But he saw instead
the fair myth of Endymion. This woman was a goddess to the end. For
her no love could be degrading: she stood outside all degradation. This
episode, which she thought so sordid, and which was so tragic for him,
remained supremely beautiful. To such a height was he lifted, that
without regret he could now have told her that he was her worshipper
too. But what was the use of telling her? For all the wonderful things
had happened.

"Thank you," was all that he permitted himself. "Thank you for
everything."

She looked at him with great friendliness, for he had made her life
endurable. At that moment the train entered the San Gothard tunnel. They
hurried back to the carriage to close the windows lest the smuts should
get into Harriet's eyes.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: By the time the English group had recuperated enough to leave Italy, the two men are good friends again. On the way back to England, Philip received another disappointment. Because of the romantic atmosphere and their close association, he has fallen in love with Miss Abbott. He almost proposes to her when they are talking about love and the future, but she, thinking he had suspected it long before, tells him of her passion for Gino. Philip for years thought that he understood the world, but he now recognizes that he really understood nothing. Womp womp.