"It is all very beautiful, of course,--the way the town piles itself up
against the hillside, the pink and yellow and lilac _blondeur_ of the
houses, the olive gardens, the radiant sky overhead,--it is all very
picturesque and beautiful. But I am not hungry for beauty--at least,
for this beauty. If you were here with me,--ah, then indeed! But you
are not here, and I am hungry for Craford. There was a time when
Craford used to seem to me the tritest spot in Europe, and the thought
of Italy was luminous of everything romantic, of everything to be
desired. There was a time when nothing gave me such joy as to wake and
remember, 'I am in Italy--in Italy--in Italy!'--in Rome or Florence or
Venice, as the case might be. But the times have changed, have
changed. _You_ were in Italy in those days, and now you are at
Craford. Italy is dust and ashes. I hunger for Craford as the only
place in the world where life is life."