"Not a funeral. You haven't
eaten enough. Have a pickle."
But the shadow lingered. It was like the shadow thrown by the white
clouds riding the light spring wind. It put out the naming colours of
the grass and flowers. It was as though winter, slinking sullenly to
its lair, showed its teeth at them in sinister reminder. Then it was
gone. It was difficult to believe it could return.
Robert looked up shyly into Francey's face, and she smiled down at him
with her warm eyes. They had scarcely spoken to one another, but
something delicate and exquisite had been born between them in their
silence. He was afraid to touch it, and afraid almost to move. He
felt very close to her, very sure that she was living with him,
withdrawn secretly from the rest into the strange world that he had
discovered. He was happy. And happiness like this was new to him and
terrifying. He was like a waif from the streets, pale and gaunt and
young, with dazzled eyes gazing for the first time into great distances.
"Italy----" Gertie Sumners muttered. She threw away her cigarette, and
sat with her sickly face between her hands. "I've got to get there
before I die. Think of all the swine that hoof about the Sistine
Chapel yawning their fat heads off, and me who'd give my immortal soul
for an hour----"
"You'll go," Howard said, blinking kindly at her. "I'll take you.
We'll get out of this for good and all. I'll bust a bank or forge a
cheque.
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