Page:The Novels and Tales of Henry James, Volume 1 (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907).djvu/163

 Roderick looked almost black. "Ah, that shows you don't really believe in me—as distinguished from believing in yourself."

Poor Rowland flushed, hesitating but an instant. "Yes, I 'm afraid there 's no doubt I do believe, where you are concerned, in myself. But 'go it' then, and buon divertimento. Good-bye!" Standing in his place as the coach rolled away, he looked back at his friend lingering by the roadside. A great snow mountain behind Roderick was beginning to turn pink in the sunset. The slim and straight young figure waved its hat with a sort of mocking solemnity. Rowland settled himself in his place, reflecting, after all, that this was a salubrious beginning of independence. Roderick was among forests and glaciers, leaning on the pure bosom of nature. And then—and then—was it not in itself a guarantee against folly to be engaged to Mary Garland?