San Salvatore had latterly seemed a little forlorn. He
fancied it echoed when he walked about it. He had felt lonely there;
so lonely that he had preferred this year to miss out a spring and let
it. It wanted a wife in it. It wanted that final touch of warmth and
beauty, for he never thought of his wife except in terms of warmth and
beauty--she would of course be beautiful and kind. It amused him how
much in love with this vague wife he was already.
At such a rate was he making friends with the lady with the sweet
name as he walked along the path towards the lighthouse, that he was
sure presently he would be telling her everything about himself and his
past doings and his future hopes; and the thought of such a swiftly
developing confidence made him laugh.
"Why are you laughing?" she asked, looking at him and smiling.
"It's so like coming home," he said.
"But it is coming home for you to come here."
"I mean really like coming home. To one's--one's family. I
never had a family. I'm an orphan."
"Oh, are you?" said Rose with the proper sympathy. "I hope
you've not been one very long. No--I don't mean I hope you have been
one very long. No--I don't know what I mean, except that I'm sorry."
He laughed again. "Oh I'm used to it. I haven't anybody.
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