Today the prose-poem of "Loneliness" had not been getting on very well,
and Philip Lucas was glad to hear the click of the garden-gate, which
showed that his loneliness was over for the present, and looking up he
saw his wife's figure waveringly presented to his eyes through the
twisted and knotty glass of the parlour window, which had taken so long
to collect, but which now completely replaced the plain, commonplace
unrefracting stuff which was there before. He jumped up with an
alacrity remarkable in so solid and well-furnished a person, and had
thrown open the nail-studded front-door before Lucia had traversed the
path of broken paving-stones, for she had lingered for a sad moment at
Perdita's empty border.

"_Lucia mia_!" he exclaimed. "_Ben arrivata_! So you walked
from the station?"

"_Si, Peppino, mio caro_," she said. "_Sta bene_?"

He kissed her and relapsed into Shakespeare's tongue, for their
Italian, though firm and perfect as far as it went, could not be
considered as going far, and was useless for conversational purposes,
unless they merely wanted to greet each other, or to know the time. But
it was interesting to talk Italian, however little way it went.

"_Molto bene_," said he, "and it's delightful to have you home
again. And how was London?" he asked in the sort of tone in which he
might have enquired after the health of a poor relation, who was not
likely to recover. She smiled rather sadly.

"Terrifically busy about nothing," she said. "All this fortnight I have