The Place of Honeymoons Part 28

Celeste had her fancy-work instantly in her two hands; Abbott's were occupied; Flora's hands were likewise engaged; thus, the insipid mockery of hand-shaking was nicely and excusably avoided.

"What is it?" asked Flora, squinting.

"It is a new style of the impressionist which I began this morning,"

soberly.

"It looks very natural," observed Flora.

"Natural!" Abbott dropped his mahl-stick.

"It is Vesuv', is it not, on a cloudy day?"

This was too much for Abbott's gravity, and he laughed.

"It was not necessary to spoil a good picture ... on my account," said Flora, closing the lorgnette with a snap. Her great dark eyes were dreamy and contemplative like a cat's, and, as every one knows, a cat's eye is the most observing of all eyes. It is quite in the order of things, since a cat's att.i.tude toward the world is by need and experience wholly defensive.

"The Signora is wrong. I did not spoil it on her account. It was past helping yesterday. But I shall, however, rechristen it Vesuvius, since it represents an eruption of temper."

Flora tapped the handle of her parasol with the lorgnette. It was distinctly a sign of approval. These Americans were never slow-witted. She swung the parasol to and fro, slowly, like a pendulum.

"It is too bad," she said, her glance roving over the white walls of the villa.

"It was irrevocably lost," Abbott declared.

"No, no; I do not mean the picture. I am thinking of La Toscana. Her voice was really superb; and to lose it entirely...!" She waved a sympathetic hand.

Abbott was about to rise up in vigorous protest. But fate itself chose to rebuke Flora. From the window came--"_Sai cos' ebbe cuore!_"--sung as only Nora could sing it.

The ferrule of Flora Desimone's parasol bit deeply into the clover-turf.

CHAPTER XVII

THE BALL AT THE VILLA

"Do you know the d.u.c.h.essa?" asked Flora Desimone.

"Yes." It was three o'clock the same afternoon. The duke sat with his wife under the vine-clad trattoria on the quay. Between his knees he held his Panama hat, which was filled with ripe hazelnuts. He cracked them vigorously with his strong white teeth and filliped the broken sh.e.l.ls into the lake, where a frantic little fish called _agoni_ darted in and about the slowly sinking particles. "Why?" The duke was not any grayer than he had been four or five months previous, but the characteristic expression of his features had undergone a change. He looked less Jovian than Job-like.

"I want you to get an invitation to her ball at the Villa Rosa to-night."

"We haven't been here twenty-four hours!" in mild protest.

"What has that to do with it? It doesn't make any difference."

"I suppose not." He cracked and ate a nut. "Where is he?"

"He has gone to Milan. He left hurriedly. He's a fool," impatiently.

"Not necessarily. Foolishness is one thing and discretion is another. Oh, well; his presence here was not absolutely essential. Presently he will marry and settle down and be a good boy." The next nut was withered, and he tossed it aside. "Is her voice really gone?"

"No." Flora leaned with her arms upon the railing and glared at the wimpling water. She had carried the Apple of Discord up the hill and down again. Nora had been indisposed.

"I am glad of that."

She turned the glare upon him.

"I am very glad of that, considering your part in the affair."

"Michael...!"

"Be careful. Michael is always a prelude to a temper. Have one of these,"

offering a nut.

She struck it rudely from his hand.

"Sometimes I am tempted to put my two hands around that exquisite neck of yours."

"Try it."

"No, I do not believe it would be wise. But if ever I find out that you have lied to me, that you loved the fellow and married me out of spite...." He completed the sentence by suggestively crunching a nut.

The sullen expression on her face gave place to a smile. "I should like to see you in a rage."

"No, my heart; you would like nothing of the sort. I understand you better than you know; that accounts for my patience. You are Italian. You are caprice and mood. I come from a cold land. If ever I do get angry, run, run as fast as ever you can."

Flora was not, among other things, frivolous or light-headed. There was an earthquake hidden somewhere in this quiet docile man, and the innate deviltry of the woman was always trying to dig down to it. But she never deceived herself. Some day this earthquake would open up and devour her.

"I hate him. He snubbed me. I have told you that a thousand times."

He laughed and rattled the nuts in his hat.

"I want you to get that invitation."

"And if I do not?"

"I shall return immediately to Paris."

"And break your word to me?"

"As easily as you break one of these nuts."

"And if I get the invitation?"

"I shall fulfil my promise to the letter. I will tell her as I promised."