The curate deluded himself with no such vain hopes. Diana’s presence was like the sun to him. Without it he faded and drooped, though otherwise he was not much like a flower. He was a heavy Englishman, not clever or endowed with much insight, yet he had a heart in his capacious and clumsy bosom. And to those who possess that organ, some things are visible which genius itself, without it, could scarcely see. It has been said that Pandolfini had chosen the ponderous silent young Englishman as the object of his special bounties, having divined him, and the sentiment which was his soul. It was young Snodgrass’s turn now to divine his friend, and he did it sadly, with a true brotherly, friendly sorrow for the evil he had discovered. He was not contented with the plea of business which Sophy accepted, and which all the others had to accept. He sought the much-occupied bridegroom out, even in the depths of his dark palace, and resisted all attempts to send him away. “I will wait till you are ready,” he said, and pretended not to see what miserable pretence of work it was which his friend at last pushed away. He got him out against Pandolfini’s will, who went with him, as was evident, only to get rid of him the sooner. But the curate was not to be shaken off. He went again and again; he watched with all the anxiety of friendship. He perceived how little Pandolfini saw of his bride, and how eagerly he seized upon every excuse to avoid being with her. He saw how, when the bridegroom paid the hurried visits which necessity demanded, Diana avoided him, and that under no circumstances did these two see each other, who, when he left Pisa, had been meeting every night. And, above all, the curate saw the misery in Pandolfini’s eyes. He said nothing for a long time, for he was not quick of purpose, or ready to seize what could be done; but at length the spectacle became too much for the good-hearted fellow. They were walking one night by the Arno, very silent, saying nothing to each other. It was after a half-hour spent with the Nortons: Pandolfini had apparently caught at the chance of the curate’s company to carry him through this visit--and though Snodgrass was not quick of observation, he could not but remark, having his attention roused and on the alert, the curious character of the scene of which he was a spectator. Pandolfini was not indifferent; nothing of the ease and calm of that unexcited condition was in the anxious pathetic tender apology of the tone in which he replied to Sophy’s little _espiègleries_ and reproaches. “Are you always to be so drowned in business--always business? you never had any business when we knew you first,” she cried, pouting. He looked at her with a melancholy in his eyes which went to the curate’s heart: but it did not succeed in reaching the observation of Sophy, who had other things to think of than the looks of her betrothed: he was her property, and about him she entertained no doubt.