which was wonderfully beneficial. Francesca just suggested the idea, which was eagerly caught and tenaciously retained—namely, Francis's infidelity to herself. What! could he go away, leaving her to a solitude wholly occupied with his image and yet have his heart sufficiently vacant to admit even light and passing fancies, beside the serious vow and faith offered to another! Lucy angrily disclaimed aught beyond pity for the memory of the treacherous cavalier; but said that, for his sake, she should hate the very name of love. Francesca thought this rather a rash assertion, as, indeed, such disclaimers usually are.
Winter was now setting in, and our Italian, with all the early associations of a southern clime, trembled before its gloomy influence, and feared lest she should see Lucy's spirits sink with the monotony of its long evenings; for she saw at once that she had not mind enough to be attracted by any abstract pursuit—the selfishness was so quiet and so kindly as to be almost imperceptible; still she could only be interested in something referring to herself. She had no energy for application—in music she never got beyond a few simple airs caught by ear; and Italian, which she began to learn, soon became equally wearisome to both
