“Sometimes it is,” Sam answered, and then he laughed. I didn’t see how he could. It was a pleasant day, and the court was full of sunshine, and the grass and even some of the rose bushes were green--but everything looked bleak to me--I felt _alone_, and _blue_. “Anything wrong?” asked Sam, after we had strolled around a little while, and looked at the well, and stolen some sprigs of herb from a little plot that had a few early vegetables in it. “There seems to be,” I answered. “Why, Jane! . . . How can there be under the warmth of an Italian sun, and in this lovely place, and with a--a troubadour who--who adores you?” then he stopped, and I felt much better. I don’t remember when I have felt so _much_ better. “I’m all right now,” I said, and I smiled up at him, and then because he looked a little different from usual, I thought we’d better go back to Mr. Wake. I said so. “Love him as much as I do,” said Sam, “the dickens with him! Look here, dear, if there is any--any satisfaction in my liking you, you can collect it any time, and what’s more--the darned stuff’s rolling up a whacking big interest.” I liked that; I said so. Then I said that we _must_ go back to Mr. Wake, and I turned to go across the court, and Sam followed, saying he’d like to shake me. Going down to the car we drank the wine that the friars make and sell in tiny little bottles. And Sam and I got silly and had lots of fun, but Mr. Wake was unusually quiet. I think, perhaps, we had tired him. It was late when I reached home, for we had stopped to hear the last of a concert that was being given in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, and that led to a little table with three chairs around it, and some chocolate, and cakes. Then Mr. Wake left us at the Piazza del Duomo, where he took the tram to Fiesole, and Sam walked up to the Piazza Indipendenza with me; we didn’t hurry--he told me about his new orders, and I told him how well the twins were doing--and it seemed to take quite a little time. And it was all of seven when we stood outside the pension door, on the third floor, and shook hands. “You’ll be late for dinner,” said Sam. “It doesn’t matter,” I answered. “I _hope_ it won’t be cold,” he said. “I don’t care,” I responded. Then he said he was sorry, again, and he hoped it wouldn’t be cold, again, and I told him it didn’t matter, again, and then we reached the point we’d both been waiting for, which was, his saying, “Well, when can I see you again?” And after I told him--I said, “day after to-morrow,” because I didn’t think it was nice to _rush_ things--I went in. I expected to hear Mr. Hemmingway reminiscing in the dining room, but no sound came from there; the place seemed strangely and unpleasantly still. I had expected also to encounter Beata carrying in one of the later courses, but when my eyes accommodated to the dim light I saw that Beata was sitting by the table, with her head in her arms, crying.