Below, the sea was still
blue and the roofs still brown and white, though the day was fading
rapidly. It was dusk in the room, which, large and empty at all times,
now appeared larger and emptier than usual. Her own figure, as she sat
writing with a pad on her knee, shared the general effect of size and
lack of detail, for the flames which ran along the branches, suddenly
devouring little green tufts, burnt intermittently and sent irregular
illuminations across her face and the plaster walls. There were
no pictures on the walls but here and there boughs laden with
heavy-petalled flowers spread widely against them. Of the books fallen
on the bare floor and heaped upon the large table, it was only possible
in this light to trace the outline.
Mrs. Ambrose was writing a very long letter. Beginning "Dear Bernard,"
it went on to describe what had been happening in the Villa San Gervasio
during the past three months, as, for instance, that they had had the
British Consul to dinner, and had been taken over a Spanish man-of-war,
and had seen a great many processions and religious festivals, which
were so beautiful that Mrs. Ambrose couldn't conceive why, if people
must have a religion, they didn't all become Roman Catholics. They had
made several expeditions though none of any length. It was worth coming
if only for the sake of the flowering trees which grew wild quite near
the house, and the amazing colours of sea and earth.
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