John Derringham laid no pitfalls for her—­indeed, he helped her out when he could.  To-day each new discovery no longer made him smile with bitter cynicism, he was only filled with a sense of discomfort and regret.

He stopped in front of Andrea’s masterpiece, the tender young Madonna.  Something in the expression of the face made him think of Halcyone, although the types of the two were entirely different; and Cecilia Cricklander, watching, saw a look of deep pain grow in his eyes.

“I wish to goodness he would get well and be human and masterful and brilliant, as he used to be,” she thought.  “I am thoroughly tired out, trying to cope with him.  He is no more use now than a bump on a log.  I am sorry I made him come here!”

“It is about time for lunch,” said John Derringham, who could no longer bear her prattle; and they returned to the hotel.

Arabella and an American man made the partie carree, and Miss Clinker did her best to help to get through the repast, and afterwards wrote in a letter to her mother: 

Mr. Derringham has arrived.  He still looks dreadfully ill and careworn, and I can see is feeling his position acutely.  Since that dreadful day when he found my notes in Gibbon, I have never dared to look at him when in the company of M. E. I feel that distressing sensation of hot and cold during the whole time.  M. E., now that no further great efforts are needed, chatters on with most disquieting inconsequence.  I can see she is very much upset at Mr. Derringham’s attitude.  The impression that the Conservative Goverment cannot last has had also a great effect upon her, and she has set me to find out exactly the position and amount of prestige the wife of a rising member of the Opposition would have.  This morning she sent for me, when she was dressing, to know if it were true, as Mr. Derringham had told her, that, if the Radicals got in, they might last seven years—­because, if so, she would then be almost thirty-eight, and the best days of her youth would be over.  I do not dare to think what these remarks may mean, but in connection with the fact that she receives daily letters from Mr. Hanbury-Green—­that unpleasant Socialistic person who is coming so much to the front—­I almost fear, and yet hope, that there is some chance for Mr. Derringham’s escape.  He is bearing his trouble as only an English gentleman could do, and at lunch paid her every attention.

And old Mrs. Clinker smiled when she got this letter.

But by the end of the afternoon John Derringham’s face wore no smiles; a blank despair had settled upon him.

They drove along the Arno and into the Gardens.

It was warm and beautiful, but, so forceful is a hostile atmosphere created between two people, they both found it impossible to make conversation.