Adrian, coming in, saw Anthony's letter, superscribed and stamped,
lying on the table.
"I 'm posting a lot of stuff of my own," he said. "Shall I post this
with it?"
Had Susanna admitted him to her confidence? How otherwise could it
have befallen, as it did, that she received Anthony's letter, which was
of course addressed to Craford, at Isola Nobile no later than that very
evening?
She read it, smiling.
"Which of the many villas that overlook the bay and are visible from my
window, with their white walls and dark-green gardens,--which is
yours?" he questioned. "All day I have been wondering. That is the
single thing that really stirs me here, that really gives me a
_feeling_--its association with you. All day I have been hearing a
sonnet of Ronsard's--do you remember it?--_Voicy le bois_. But I wish
I knew which villa is your villa, which garden is your garden. Why did
n't I find out before I was driven from Paradise? I could easily find
out here by inquiring, I suppose. But your name is too sacred. I
can't profane it by speaking it aloud to people who might not bare
their heads at the sound of it."
Susanna tittered.