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didn’t have them. Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told
you. I flattered myself I had limited my wants. But I was
subject to irritation; I used to have morbid, sterile, hateful
fits of hunger, of desire. Now I’m really satisfied, because
I can’t think of anything better. It’s just as when one has
been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly
the lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the
book of life and finding nothing to reward me for my pains;
but now that I can read it properly I see it’s a delightful sto-
ry. My dear girl, I can’t tell you how life seems to stretch
there before us-what a long summer afternoon awaits us.
It’s the latter half of an Italian day-with a golden haze, and
the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy in
the light, the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my
life and which you love to-day. Upon my honour, I don’t
see why we shouldn’t get on. We’ve got what we like-to say
nothing of having each other. We’ve the faculty of admira-
tion and several capital convictions. We’re not stupid, we’re
not mean, we’re not under bonds to any kind of ignorance
or dreariness. You’re remarkably fresh, and I’m remarkably
well-seasoned. We’ve my poor child to amuse us; we’ll try
and make up some little life for her. It’s all soft and mellow-
it has the Italian colouring.’
They made a good many plans, but they left themselves
also a good deal of latitude; it was a matter of course, how-
ever, that they should live for the present in Italy. It was in
Italy that they had met, Italy had been a party to their first
impressions of each other, and Italy should be a party to their
happiness. Osmond had the attachment of old acquaintance

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