But presently, when the group had broken up and Ferrier was once more
strolling beside Diana, he said to her:
"A fine prophecy! But I had a letter this morning from another Italian
writer. It contains the following passage: 'The soul of this nation is
dead. The old enthusiasms are gone. We have the most selfish, the most
cynical _bourgeoisie_ in Europe. Happy the men of 1860! They had some
illusions left--religion, monarchy, country. We too have men who _would
give themselves_--if they could. But to what? No one wants them any
more--_nessuno li vuole piu_!' Well, there are the two. Which will
you believe?"
"The poet!" said Diana, in a low faltering voice. But it was no cry of
triumphant faith. It was the typical cry of our generation before the
closed door that openeth not.
* * * * *
"That was good," said Marion Vincent, as the last of the party
disappeared through the terrace window, and she and Diana were left
alone--"but this is better."
She drew Diana toward her, kissed her, and smiled at her. But the smile
wrung Diana's heart.
"Why have you been so ill?--and I never knew!" She wrapped a shawl round
her friend, and, holding her hands, gazed into her face.
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