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But he knew his ways tolerably well, and was familiar with the chronic acidity of his speech. "You probably guess who has written to me," Orsino resumed. "It was natural, perhaps, that she should have something to say, but what she actually says, is more than I was prepared to hear." Spicca's eyes grew less dull and he turned an inquiring glance on his companion.
Giovanni laughed hoarsely, Spicca took a foil from the wall and played with it, looking along the thin blade, then setting the point on the carpet and bending the weapon to see whether it would spring back properly. Giovanni's eyes followed his movements, watching the slender steel, and then glancing at Spicca's long arms, his nervous fingers and peculiar grip.
His conversation with Spicca, and Spicca's own behaviour while it lasted, produced a decided effect upon the current of his thoughts, and he was surprised to find himself thinking more often and more seriously of Maria Consuelo than during the months which had succeeded her departure from Rome. Spicca's words had acted indirectly upon his mind.
He has earned his rest, and God will forgive him." The monk bowed his head and went out. Orsino re-entered the room and took the vacant chair beside the bed. He touched Spicca's hand almost affectionately, but the latter withdrew it with an effort. He had never liked sympathy, and liked it least when another would have needed it most. For a considerable time neither spoke.
"You have me, if you will take my help. And you have Spicca. You might do better, but you might do worse. Between us we might accomplish something." Maria Consuelo had started at Spicca's name. She seemed very nervous that day. "Do you know what you are saying?" she asked after a moment's thought. "Nothing that should offend you, at least." "No.
Spicca's voice, which had grown animated during his exposition of his method, now sank again to its habitually melancholy tone. Giovanni only shrugged his shoulders at the question, as though any answer were needless. He hung the foil he had used in its place on the wall, and began to smoke.
"And great charm, I think." "Ah well of course I daresay. We Romans cannot help thinking that for an artist he is a little too much occupied in being a gentleman and for a gentleman he is quite too much an artist." The remark was not original with Donna Tullia, but had been reported to her as Spicca's, and Spicca had really said something similar about somebody else.
Pray for them, poor creatures, if there is any available praying power left in you, after attending to the wants of your own soul, which, considering your matrimonial intentions, I should think very improbable." Gouache looked at his companion curiously, for Spicca's virulence astonished him.
There was a settled hardness in his face which was never again to disappear permanently. But he was horror-struck by Spicca's appearance. He had no idea that a man already so cadaverous could still change as the old man had changed. Spicca seemed little more than a grey shadow barely resting upon the white bed. He put the telegram into Orsino's hands.
He knew at least one part of the meaning which showed Spicca's remorse for having killed Aranjuez, and he knew that the old man meant what he said, and meant it from his heart. "Do you understand me now?" asked Spicca, slowly inhaling the smoke of his cigarette. "Not altogether. If you desire the happiness of Madame d'Aranjuez why do you wish us to fall in love with each other?
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