“That's true. I could imagine worse things than going on just as before. I suppose,” he added, “that something more explicit has its charms; but a mutual understanding is very pleasant,--if it _is_ a mutual understanding.” He looked inquiringly at Dunham. “Why, as to that, of course I don't know. You ought to be the best judge of that. But I don't believe your impressions would deceive you.” “Yours did, once,” suggested Staniford, in suspense. “Yes; but I was not in love with her,” explained Dunham. “Of course,” said Staniford, with a breath of relief. “And you think--Well, I must wait!” he concluded, grimly. “But don't--don't mention this matter, Dunham, unless I do. Don't keep an eye on me, old fellow. Or, yes, you must! You can't help it. I want to tell you, Dunham, what makes me think she may be a not wholly uninterested spectator of my--sentiments.” He made full statement of words and looks and tones. Dunham listened with the patience which one lover has with another. XX. The few days that yet remained of their voyage were falling in the latter half of September, and Staniford tried to make the young girl see the surpassing loveliness of that season under Italian skies; the fierceness of the summer is then past, and at night, when chiefly they inspected the firmament, the heaven has begun to assume something of the intense blue it wears in winter. She said yes, it was very beautiful, but she could not see that the days were finer, or the skies bluer, than those of September at home; and he laughed at her loyalty to the American weather. “Don't _you_ think so, too?” she asked, as if it pained her that he should like Italian weather better. “Oh, yes,--yes,” he said. Then he turned the talk on her, as he did whenever he could. “I like your meteorological patriotism. If I were a woman, I should stand by America in everything.” “Don't you as a man?” she pursued, still anxiously. “Oh, certainly,” he answered. “But women owe our continent a double debt of fidelity. It's the Paradise of women, it's their Promised Land, where they've been led up out of the Egyptian bondage of Europe. It's the home of their freedom. It is recognized in America that women have consciences and souls.” Lydia looked very grave. “Is it--is it so different with women in Europe?” she faltered. “Very,” he replied, and glanced at her half-laughingly, half-tenderly. After a while, “I wish you would tell me,” she said, “just what you mean. I wish you would tell me what is the difference.” “Oh, it's a long story. I will tell you--when we get to Venice.” The well-worn jest served its purpose again; she laughed, and he continued: “By the way, just when will that be? The captain says that if this wind holds we shall be in Trieste by Friday afternoon. I suppose your friends will meet you there on Saturday, and that you'll go back with them to Venice at once.” “Yes,” assented Lydia. “Well, if I should come on Monday, would that be too soon?”