rejoining her here; that Florence was a village where they would be
watched at once. But she would have to write: "I love you." She must
quiet him with caressing phrases.

She had not the courage to do it. She would let him guess the truth.
She accused herself in veiled terms. She wrote obscurely of souls
carried away by the flood of life, and of the atom one is on the moving
ocean of events. She asked him, with affectionate sadness, to keep of
her a fond reminiscence in a corner of his soul.

She took the letter to the post-office box on the Fiesole square.
Children were playing in the twilight. She looked from the top of the
hill to the beautiful cup which carried beautiful Florence like a jewel.
And the peace of night made her shiver. She dropped the letter into the
box. Then only she had the clear vision of what she had done and of what
the result would be.




CHAPTER XX

WHAT IS FRANKNESS?

In the square, where the spring sun scattered its yellow roses, the bells
at noon dispersed the rustic crowd of grain-merchants assembled to sell
their wares. At the foot of the Lanzi, before the statues, the venders
of ices had placed, on tables covered with red cotton, small castles
bearing the inscription: 'Bibite ghiacciate'. And joy descended from
heaven to earth. Therese and Jacques, returning from an early promenade