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Updated: June 1, 2025
They waved their hands cheerily and vanished from sight. They never saw Giovanni again; yet his hand was to work out the great epoch in Hillard's destiny. "Poor devil!" said Merrihew. "You remember, Jack, that I once went in for medicine?" "Yes." "Well, I have some part of the gift yet. That little girl will not live three months; heart.
Merrihew wisely refrained from adding any questions. He was human; he knew that somewhere in Hillard's breast the fires of hope burned anew. The day passed without additional news. But at night the last of the American Comic Opera Company straggled into the hotel, plus various pieces of luggage. O'Mally, verbose as ever, did all the talking and vending of news.
Merrihew was first to break the silence. "Jack, I am an ass!" penitently. "I admit it," said Hillard, smiling. "Let's hunt up the restaurant; I am hungry and thirsty." And by the time they had found the Ristorante Tornaghi miserable and uninviting they were laughing. "Only, I wish I knew where they were going," was Hillard's regret. "They?" said Merrihew. "Yes.
"Well, I have said that we shall meet again, and it must be so." "And your hat, as well as mine, is still in the Casino. The night is cold." The Italian tugged impatiently at his mustache and permitted his glance to wander over Hillard critically. No, a struggle, much as he longed for it, would not be wise. He swung round on his heel and walked rapidly down the street, much to Hillard's relief.
Here is also his Apollo overtaking Daphne, whose feet take root, whose, finger-tips sprout into twigs, and whose tender body roughens round about with bark, as he embraces her. It did not seem very wonderful to me; not so good as Hillard's description of it made me expect; and one does not enjoy these freaks in marble.
He would gladly have started out and explored every Campo in Venice that night. Hillard's indifference annoyed him. "To the barges of the troupes!" said Hillard to Achille, who pushed off with a series of short strokes. In the great canal of San Marco the scene was like a water-carnival.
Hillard not to put his money in any like adventure. Italy was strongly against any foreign invasion, aside from the American trolley-car. "That's hard luck," growled Merrihew, who saw his hopes go down the horizon. "But it makes me out a pretty good prophet," was Hillard's rejoinder. "The Angel's money gave out. Too many obstacles.
He was a lovable fellow, and there was something kindred in his soul and Hillard's, possibly the spirit of romance. They had met years before, at a commencement, Merrihew in his mortar-board and gown and Hillard as an old graduate, renewing his youth at the fountains. What drew them together, perhaps more than anything else, was their mutual love of out-door pleasures.
The main thing is, you annoyed me. In Monte Carlo I was practically alone. Here the scene is different; it is Florence. Doubtless you will understand." He struck out with the gloves. But they never touched Hillard's face. His hand, expectant of this very movement, caught the assailant's wrist, and, with a quick jerk, brought him half-way across the table.
At odd whiles he had a vision of Kitty in her simple white dress, of Merrihew's flushed face, of Hillard's frowning pallor, of La Signorina wholly in black, a rare necklace round her white throat, a star of emeralds in her hair, her face calm and serene. Where would they all be on the morrow? "Pietro, she is more than beautiful!" sighed O'Mally. "But wait," said Pietro.
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