“No,” she said, “you are wrong.” Then a sort of tension came over her, she raised her face like the pythoness inspired with oracles, and went on, in rhapsodic manner: “_Il Sandro mi scrive che ha accolto il più grande entusiasmo, tutti i giovani, e fanciulle e ragazzi, sono tutti_—” She went on in Italian, as if, in thinking of the Italians she thought in their language.
He listened with a shade of distaste to her rhapsody, then he said:
“For all that, I don’t like it. Their nationalism is just industrialism—that and a shallow jealousy I detest so much.”
“I think you are wrong—I think you are wrong—” said Hermione. “It seems to me purely spontaneous and beautiful, the modern Italian’s passion, for it is a passion, for Italy, _l’Italia_—”
“Do you know Italy well?” Ursula asked of Hermione. Hermione hated to be broken in upon in