RODERICK HUDSON
they had simply resolved themselves into a desire for a great deal of tea and for a certain extremely familiar old black and white shawl across her feet as she lay on the sofa. But the sense of novelty was evidently strong upon Mary and the light of expectation in her eye. She was restless and excited; she moved about the room and went often to the window; she took everything in; she watched the Italian servants as they came and went; she had already had a long colloquy with the French chambermaid, who had published her views on the Roman question; she noted the small differences in the furniture, in the cookery, in the sounds that came in from the street. She might have been an exceptionally fine specimen-islander of an unclassed group, brought home by a great navigator and treatable as yet mainly by beads and comfits. Rowland was sure she observed to good purpose, that she only needed opportunity, and that she would gather impressions in clusters as thick as the purple bunches of a vintage. He wished immensely he might have a hand in the work; he wished he might show her Rome. That of course would be Roderick's office, but he promised himself at least to take advantage of off-hours.
"It behoves you to appreciate your good fortune, you know," he permitted himself to say. "To be young and eager, and yet old enough and wise enough to discriminate and reflect, and to come to Italy for the first time—that 's one of the greatest pleasures life has to offer. It 's but right to remind you of it, so that you may make the most of your chances and
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