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out of her presence before something happened. But he still had to
see her. "Why don't you stop by tomorrow for tea at my place? I shall
reciprocate. We shall be quite civilized ."
She smiled. "Quite civilized. Why not?"
VII
The next letter confirmed his suspicions. There was an accusing
tone throughout much of it. Petulantly, the letter demanded a swift
reply, some favorable word that would "surely give me a reason to
hope, me who sees you always in his thoughts and has no rest." But
how would he survive , how could their exquisite love go on? She was
so far away, and would not return to him; would she at least offer
him the chance to come to her? "I write and wait days and days .. .
and nothing comes but . .." (he had to look up the word and impro–
vise) "blandnesses. How can I go on this way? Please, please, give
me hope. You, you have comfort and security. But
I, I
have the
knowledge of sadness and discomfort." Again, less subtle than
before, came the suggestion that she send some money. It was
difficult to read it and his voice trailed off. Now she was looking at
him. How could he diffuse the pain that she had to be feeling?
"My words lack the power of telling you how much I love you.
Your presence haunts me throughout the whole day. I want to press
you close to me, touch your hair, kiss you, make the night pass us by
so softly and the morning find us in one another's arms. But all I can
do is dream . . . for there is this . .. ocean between us." He sensed
her gaze on him and he did not look up. The letter had ended but he
had gone on, had told her what he felt. And now was the time to tell
her that he had spoken at last for himself; there were no words on a
page to guide him.
But he could not speak. She was not his. She had given herself
to somebody else, they were meeting on clearly defined terms, and
his love for her was inadmissible. He would be a sneak to deceive her
and try to steal her away; all the earlier meetings would seem a cyn–
ical ruse to trap her, a pretense of friendship and assistance but actu–
ally something else . He wanted to take advantage of the writer's
apparent wavering, but he could not. Even if the Italian was losing
his ardor, or perhaps losing his patience and facility, she gave no
sign of losing hers . No, it was not time. But how long could it all go
on?
