They had now passed on to the pier, beneath its wooden roof, to take the steamer which should bring them back to Venice. But no steamer was leaving at that moment, although far-off two large red lights were to be seen approaching rapidly towards the shores of the Lido. The two friends sat down on a wooden bench, in a badly lit corner, and resumed their conversation _sotto voce_, for other travellers were there, waiting with them for the steamer.
"These Englishwomen," resumed Lucio, speaking as if in a sad dream. "On a day in February there comes to my home, in Florence, Lilian's best friend, her most affectionate guardian, Miss May Ford, she who always accompanied her at St. Moritz: you remember her? And the good old maid stands there, quiet, imperturbable, while she asks an explanation of such a serious matter, that is, why I have deserted Lilian Temple; and she asks me with such simplicity and indifference, almost as if it were a matter of the least importance, and my pain and sorrowful embarrassment caused her wonder. She does not defend Lilian, nor Lilian's love, but is at once content with my reasons. Not that only! When I ask her to use her good influence to make Lilian forget me, she at once promises to do so. If I suggest that she should tell Lilian that I love her, but that I ought not, that I shall always love her, but still I ought to fly from her, Miss Ford declares that she will not give this message because it would make her worse; and finally when I, to show her what an invincible and mortal reason prevents me from loving Lilian, tell her of my adultery, that is of my sad servitude, when I suggest to her that a lady could kill herself if I desert her for Lilian; coldly, without protesting, she agrees to bear this embassy of death. Do you understand, Vittorio? Miss May is tenderly fond of Lilian, knows, perhaps, that Lilian loves me deeply, knows, perhaps, that Lilian will not forget me, that she will never console herself for my desertion, yet through reserve, correctness, moderation, through that proud habit of sentimental modesty, that habit of proud and noble silence which these Englishwomen have, so as not to humiliate me or herself, so as not to humiliate her friend, to conceal from herself, from me, and all whatever there was exalting and agonising in our drama of love, this Englishwoman says nothing to me and to Lilian; only a few--very few--words, the least number of words possible, a single phrase, the one necessary, which she had asked from me to take back to her, and she takes back this single phrase--and it was an embassy of death!"