Anyhow, now, since Venables, from whatever motive, had thus done the decent thing, they were again seas apart. Venables had, in a manner, by doing the things which retrospect had exhibited to the Crevequers as not quite decent, come down for a little to their level. It had only been for a little; he had now regained his own. His apology for his descent set him there with more entire security than before. Tommy, as they stood together, wished--he had of late wished it a good deal--that he liked Venables less. It was that element in any relationship that made the difference of plane oppressive. Venables, who had been standing in considering silence, seemed to remember that there was very little left to say between them. He nodded good-bye, and turned away. Tommy slowly opened his notebook, and stared at his half-completed sketch beneath drawn-down brows. 'What rot; what sickening rot,' he murmured, and finished the drawing with quick, skilful strokes. This was a great time for newspaper men. Leaving the harbour, Tommy strolled into the town, to seek impressions. The most vivid, coming to him unsought, was one of cinders and black dust falling like intermittent rain into his eyes. To protect them he followed Venables' example, and thrust a page from his sketch-book under his hat. In the street outside Santa Chiara he encountered Mrs. Venables and Miranda; they were coming out of the church. Beneath her swathing motor veil, Mrs. Venables' face was alight with exaltation. She also, manifestly, was seeking--and finding--impressions. She accosted Tommy. 'Immensely striking.... But too pitiful'--she indicated the church--'the prayers, the unreasoning, childlike terror. In the streets, too, the poor terrified refugees, clasping their household gods and lighting candles to the saints as they walk ... infinitely pathetic ... if one could tell them how futile!' She paused, remembering, perhaps, that Tommy, as belonging to the same childlike faith, might also, on occasion, light a candle to the saints. 'It seems a natural thing to try, under the circumstances,' he remarked, confirming her suspicion. 'Poor souls,' she murmured. 'I must get over to Bosco Trecase to-morrow.... Human nature in the raw ... deeply impressive. One's heart bleeds for all the broken-up homes. And the way they take it--children hurt without knowing why. That seems to me to be infinitely pathetic; don't you think so, Mr. Crevequer?' Mr. Crevequer tapped his sketch-book with his pencil. The difference of plane did not oppress him particularly in Mrs. Venables' presence; he still almost enjoyed it. 'It's got, you know, to seem f-funny to me,' he explained. 'But I admit it's a little forced, some of the humour.' 'Oh yes--your paper.' Mrs. Venables became vague; her eyes greedily took in impressions from the passers-by. Miranda said, 'Oh, I say, do let's see!' Tommy did not open his book. He changed the subject. 'Rather pretty, the way the cinders fall, don't you think?'