grip.
“You are looking delightful, Miss Brown,” he told her, “and as if you have been soaking up the sun. Did you ever know sunshine like this in England?”
“No, never,” she answered. Actually, she was acutely aware of the fact that, in the process of ‘soaking up the sun’ she had acquired a slight shine on the tip of her nose, and her hair felt definitely untidy. The smart white outfit she had put on with such pride that morning felt crumpled and soiled.
She noticed that in his buttonhole—and he was very smart this afternoon, very much the owner of one of the oldest palazzos in the district, with an aristocratic disdain for all lesser mortals around him (particularly obvious tourists, at whom he glanced as if they had no right to exist)—he wore a slightly wilting red rosebud, and it caused her to remember the gift of red roses she had received that morning. With a slight shock—for the last thing she wished to believe was that it really was Count Paul who had sent her the flowers—she wondered whether it was purely a coincidence that his buttonhole had obviously been purchased in the same florist’s that had despatched the roses to her.
“Bianca and I have decided that we must call you Cathleen,” he said, as if he expected her to feel mildly flattered, at least. “After all, your sister was Arlette to us, and you cannot continue to be Miss Brown. It would be ridiculous!”
“Quite ridiculous,” Edouard agreed, in an extremely dry voice.
Paul turned and looked at him. Despite the lustre of his eyes they were bleak and cold.
‘Bianca was expecting to see or hear from you to-day,” he told him. “Apparently last night you made some sort of an arrangement.”
“If we did I must have a very bad memory,” Moroc returned quietly. “An inexcusable memory!”
Paul shrugged again.
“Well, there is little point in our standing here like this. I have run Cathleen to earth, and now I have to pass on to her Bianca’s invitation. To-night we shall be dining at Francini’s, and we look for the pleasure of having you join us, Cathleen. Edouard, too, if he has nothing better to do,” with very little empressement in his manner, however.
Cathleen looked at Edouard, and she expected him to shake his head instantly. After all, he had already invited her to have dinner with him, and unless he released her from the invitation she couldn’t accept another. She would much rather have dinner with Edouard—whom she felt by this time she was getting to know a little—in any case; but, to her astonishment, the same thing happened that had happened the night before. One moment he had been planning to take her home, the next he had casually resigned the pleasure to Paul. Now he smiled at her as if he was up against major opposition, made a slight, expressive gesture with his hands, and spoke coolly.
“There was something I was planning to do, but I’m sure Cathleen will enjoy Bianca’s party best. And if Bianca is labouring under the delusion that I planned to meet her to-day I shall have to make my peace with her. For my part I accept.”
Paul offered no comment. He looked at Cathleen, and the bleakness vanished from his eyes.
“And you, signorina ? ” he asked.
“Thank you, I—I shall love it,” Cathleen answered, rather stiffly; and when Edouard remembered that his boatman was picking him up at six o’clock and turned to hurry away she barely acknowledged his departure, and forgot to thank him for the exceedingly pleasant day she had passed in his company.
Paul, who had pe r mitted her to snatch away her hands but was gazing down at her as if she was good enough to eat, expressed himself as delighted that he would see her that evening.
“I shall call for you here myself,” he said, “and it will be a pleasure I shall look forward to.” He glanced down at the rose in her belt and detached it and cast it away in disgust. “That thing is dead,” he said. He regarded her thoughtfully.
“You are looking delightful, Miss Brown,” he told her, “and as if you have been soaking up the sun. Did you ever know sunshine like this in England?”
“No, never,” she answered. Actually, she was acutely aware of the fact that, in the process of ‘soaking up the sun’ she had acquired a slight shine on the tip of her nose, and her hair felt definitely untidy. The smart white outfit she had put on with such pride that morning felt crumpled and soiled.
She noticed that in his buttonhole—and he was very smart this afternoon, very much the owner of one of the oldest palazzos in the district, with an aristocratic disdain for all lesser mortals around him (particularly obvious tourists, at whom he glanced as if they had no right to exist)—he wore a slightly wilting red rosebud, and it caused her to remember the gift of red roses she had received that morning. With a slight shock—for the last thing she wished to believe was that it really was Count Paul who had sent her the flowers—she wondered whether it was purely a coincidence that his buttonhole had obviously been purchased in the same florist’s that had despatched the roses to her.
“Bianca and I have decided that we must call you Cathleen,” he said, as if he expected her to feel mildly flattered, at least. “After all, your sister was Arlette to us, and you cannot continue to be Miss Brown. It would be ridiculous!”
“Quite ridiculous,” Edouard agreed, in an extremely dry voice.
Paul turned and looked at him. Despite the lustre of his eyes they were bleak and cold.
‘Bianca was expecting to see or hear from you to-day,” he told him. “Apparently last night you made some sort of an arrangement.”
“If we did I must have a very bad memory,” Moroc returned quietly. “An inexcusable memory!”
Paul shrugged again.
“Well, there is little point in our standing here like this. I have run Cathleen to earth, and now I have to pass on to her Bianca’s invitation. To-night we shall be dining at Francini’s, and we look for the pleasure of having you join us, Cathleen. Edouard, too, if he has nothing better to do,” with very little empressement in his manner, however.
Cathleen looked at Edouard, and she expected him to shake his head instantly. After all, he had already invited her to have dinner with him, and unless he released her from the invitation she couldn’t accept another. She would much rather have dinner with Edouard—whom she felt by this time she was getting to know a little—in any case; but, to her astonishment, the same thing happened that had happened the night before. One moment he had been planning to take her home, the next he had casually resigned the pleasure to Paul. Now he smiled at her as if he was up against major opposition, made a slight, expressive gesture with his hands, and spoke coolly.
“There was something I was planning to do, but I’m sure Cathleen will enjoy Bianca’s party best. And if Bianca is labouring under the delusion that I planned to meet her to-day I shall have to make my peace with her. For my part I accept.”
Paul offered no comment. He looked at Cathleen, and the bleakness vanished from his eyes.
“And you, signorina ? ” he asked.
“Thank you, I—I shall love it,” Cathleen answered, rather stiffly; and when Edouard remembered that his boatman was picking him up at six o’clock and turned to hurry away she barely acknowledged his departure, and forgot to thank him for the exceedingly pleasant day she had passed in his company.
Paul, who had pe r mitted her to snatch away her hands but was gazing down at her as if she was good enough to eat, expressed himself as delighted that he would see her that evening.
“I shall call for you here myself,” he said, “and it will be a pleasure I shall look forward to.” He glanced down at the rose in her belt and detached it and cast it away in disgust. “That thing is dead,” he said. He regarded her thoughtfully.
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