A passion of gratitude--
all feelings grow to passions in the South--came over the
husband, and he blessed the people and the things who had taken
so much trouble about a young fool. He had helped himself, it is
true, but how stupidly!
All the fighting that mattered had been done by others--by Italy,
by his father, by his wife.
"Lucy, you come and look at the cypresses; and the church,
whatever its name is, still shows."
"San Miniato. I'll just finish your sock."
"Signorino, domani faremo uno giro," called the cabman, with
engaging certainty.
George told him that he was mistaken; they had no money to throw
away on driving.
And the people who had not meant to help--the Miss Lavishes, the
Cecils, the Miss Bartletts! Ever prone to magnify Fate, George
counted up the forces that had swept him into this contentment.
"Anything good in Freddy's letter?"
"Not yet."
His own content was absolute, but hers held bitterness: the
Honeychurches had not forgiven them; they were disgusted at her
past hypocrisy; she had alienated Windy Corner, perhaps for ever.
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