They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She repeated:
“Oh, what have I done?”
“You fainted.”
“I—I am very sorry.”
“How are you now?”
“Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile.
“Then let us come home. There’s no point in our stopping.”
He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain—they had never ceased—rang emptily. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning.
“How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you.”
His hand was still extended.
“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly.
“What photographs?”
“I bought some photographs at Alinari’s. I must have dropped them out there in the square.” She looked at him cautiously. “Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?”
He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.