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It
was Zita, returning, evidently, from some evening
entertainment. He lifted his hat and stood aside
to let her pass, then went out into the dark lane
leading from the house to the Poggio Imperiale.
Presently the gate clicked and rapid footsteps
came down the lane.
"Wait a minute!" she said.
When he turned back to meet her she stopped
short, and then came slowly towards him, dragging
one hand after her along the hedge. There
was a single street-lamp at the corner, and he saw
by its light that she was hanging her head down
as though embarrassed or ashamed.
"How is he?" she asked without looking up.
"Much better than he was this morning. He
has been asleep most of the day and seems less
exhausted. I think the attack is passing over."
She still kept her eyes on the ground.
"Has it been very bad this time?"
"About as bad as it can well be, I should
think."
"I thought so. When he won't let me come
into the room, that always means it's bad."
"Does he often have attacks like this?"
"That depends---- It's so irregular.


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