A NIGHT OF STORMS

On his way down from the villa to the gate, Don Clemente asked himself
with secret anxiety: "Did he recognise her, or not? And if he did, what
impression did she make?" On reaching the gate he turned to him he had
called Benedetto, and scrutinised his face closely--a fleshless, pallid,
intellectual face, in which he read no sign of agitation. The eyes met
his wonderingly, almost as if questioning: "Why do you look at me thus?"
The monk said to himself: "Probably he did not recognise her, or he
supposes me to be unaware of her arrival." He passed his arm through
his companion's, holding him close, and in silence turned to the left
towards the dark and noisy gorge of the Anio. When they had walked on a
few paces under the trees which border the road, he said: "Do you not
wish to question me about the meeting?" There was more tenderness in his
tone than the commonplace words demanded. His companion answered:

"Yes, tell me about it."

The voice was husky and devoid of interest. Don Clemente said to
himself: "He certainly recognised her!" Then he talked of the meeting,
but as one preoccupied with other thoughts, without warmth, without
details; nor did his companion once interrupt him with questions or
comments.

"We separated," he said, "without having come to any conclusion; this
was partly owing to the arrival of some foreigners. So I was not able
to arrange with Signor Giovanni about you. But I think some of us,
at least, will meet again tomorrow. And you yourself," he added
hesitatingly, "do you, or do you not feel inclined to return?"