The young painters had their jokes about it; even Mr. Morton smiled, and Mrs. Bowen recognised it. But Imogene did not smile; she regarded the lovers with an interest in them scarcely less intense than their interest in each other; and a cold perspiration of question broke out on Colville’s forehead. Was that her ideal of what her own engagement should be? Had she expected him to behave in that way to her, and to accept from her a devotion like that girl’s? How bitterly he must have disappointed her! It was so impossible to him that the thought of it made him feel that he must break all ties which bound him to anything like it. And yet he reflected that the time was when he could have been equal to that, and even more.
After lunch the painters joined them again, and they all went together to visit the ruins of the Roman theatre and the stretch of Etruscan wall beyond it. The former seems older than the latter, whose huge blocks of stone lie as firmly and evenly in their courses as if placed there a year ago; the turf creeps to the edge at top, and some small trees nod along the crest of the wall, whose ancient face, clean and bare, looks sternly out over a vast prospect, now young and smiling in the first delight of spring. The piety or interest of the community, which guards the entrance to the theatre by a fee of certain centesimi, may be concerned in keeping the wall free from the grass and vines which are stealing the half-excavated arena back to forgetfulness and decay; but whatever agency it was, it weakened the appeal that the wall made to the sympathy of the spectators. They could do nothing with it; the artists did not take their sketch-blocks from their pockets. But in the theatre, where a few broken columns marked the place of the stage, and the stone benches of the auditorium were here and there reached by a flight of uncovered steps, the human interest returned.
“I suspect that there is such a thing as a ruin’s being too old,” said Colville. “Our Etruscan friends made the mistake of building their wall several thousand years too soon for our purpose.”
“Yes,” consented the young clergyman. “It seems as if our own race became alienated from us through the mere effect of time, don’t you think, sir? I mean, of course, terrestrially.”
The artists looked uneasy, as if they had not counted upon anything of this kind, and they began to scatter about for points of view. Effie got her mother’s leave to run up and down one of the stairways, if she would not fall. Mrs. Bowen sat down on one of the lower steps, and Mr. Morton took his place respectfully near her.
“I wonder how it looks from the top?” Imogene asked this of Colville, with more meaning than seemed to belong to the question properly.
“There is nothing like going to see,” he suggested. He helped her up, giving her his hand from one course of seats to another. When they reached the point which commanded the best view of the whole, she sat down, and he sank at her feet, but they did not speak of the view.
“Theodore, I want to tell you something,” she said abruptly. “I have heard from home.”
“Yes?” he replied, in a tone in which he did his best to express a readiness for any fate.
“Mother has telegraphed. She is coming out. She is on her way now. She will be here very soon.”
Colville did not know exactly what to say to these passionately consecutive statements. “Well?” he said at last.
“Well”—she repeated his word—“what do you intend to do?”
“Intend to do in what event?” he asked, lifting his eyes for the first time to the eyes which he felt burning down upon him.
“If she should refuse?”
Again he could not command an instant answer, but when it came it was a fair one. “It isn’t for me to say what I shall do,” he replied gravely. “Or, if it is, I can only say that I will do whatever you wish.”
“Do you wish nothing?”
“Nothing but your happiness.”
“Nothing but my happiness!” she retorted. “What is my happiness to me? Have I ever sought it?”
“I can’t say,” he answered; “but if I did not think you would find it—”
“I shall find it, if ever I find it, in yours,” she interrupted. “And what shall you do if my mother will not consent to our engagement?”
The experienced and sophisticated man—for that in no ill way was what Colville was—felt himself on trial for his honour and his manhood by this simple girl, this child. He could not endure to fall short of her ideal of him at that moment, no matter what error or calamity the fulfilment involved. “If you feel sure that you love me, Imogene, it will make no difference to me what your mother says. I would be glad of her consent; I should hate to go counter to her will; but I know that I am good enough man to be true and keep you all my life the first in all my thoughts, and that’s enough for me. But if you have any fear, any doubt of yourself, now is the time—”
Imogene rose to her feet as in some turmoil of thought or emotion that would not suffer her to remain quiet.
“Oh, keep still!” “Don’t get up yet!” “Hold on a minute, please!” came from the artists in different parts of the theatre, and half a dozen imploring pencils were waved in the air.
“They are sketching you,” said Colville,
