He expressed interest in no single thing. He was polite, and
indifferent, and numb.
"He must be roused now," Sir Charles said to the doctor. "It is too hot for
Venice, he must be moved to higher air," and the little man had nodded his
head.
So this warm late afternoon, as he lay under the mosquito curtains--which
the coming of June had made necessary in this paradise--his father said to
him:
"I have a letter and a parcel of yours, Paul: you had better look at
them--we hope to start north in a day or two--you must get to a more
bracing place."
Then he had pushed them under the net-folds, and turned his back on the
scene.
The blood rushed to Paul's face, but left him deathly pale after a few
moments. And presently he broke the seal. The minute Sphinx in the corner
of the paper seemed to mock at him. Indeed, life was a riddle of anguish
and pain. He read the letter all over--and read it again. The passionate
words of love warmed him now that he had passed the agony of the farewell.
One sentence he had hardly grasped before, in particular held balm.
"Sweetheart," it said, "you must not grieve--think always of the future
and of our hope. Our love is not dead with our parting, and one day
there will be the living sign--" Yes, that thought was comfort--but how
should he know?
Then he turned to the leather case.
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