"That's very kind of you, Lady Chudley," said Paul.

"Only a fellow-feeling. I nearly died of it once myself. I hope
you're getting strong."

"I'm feeling my strength returning every day. It's a queer new joy."

"Isn't it?"

They discussed the exhilaration of convalescence. It was a
'wonderful springtide. They reverted to the preceding misery.

"You're far luckier than I was," she remarked. "You've had a comfy
English house to be ill in. I was in a stone-cold palazzo in
Florence--in winter. Ugh! Shall I ever forget it? I don't want to
speak evil of Italy to an Italian--"

"I'm only Italian by descent," exclaimed Paul, with a laugh, his
first frank laugh during the whole of that gloomy evening. And he
laughed louder than was necessary, for, as it suddenly dawned upon
him that he did not in the least recall to her mind the grimy little
Bludston boy, the cold hand of fear was dissolved in a warm gush of
exultation. "You can abuse Italy or any country but England as much
as you like."

"Why mustn't I abuse England?"

"Because it's the noblest country in the world," he cried; and,
seeing approval in her eyes, he yielded to an odd temptation. "If
one could only do something great for her!"