Gheta was leaning out, and his gaze
fastened upon her with a sudden and extraordinary intensity. Lavinia
saw that her sister, without dissembling her interest, sat forward,
statuesque and lovely. It seemed to the former that the cab was an
intolerable time passing; she wished to draw Gheta back, to cover her
indiscretion from Anna Mantegazza's prying sight. She sighed with
inexplicable relief when she saw that the man had driven beyond them
and that he did not turn.
A bull-fighter! A blurred picture formed in Lavinia's mind from the
various details she had read and heard of the cruelty of the Spanish
national sport--torn horses, stiff on blood-soaked sand; a frenzied and
savage populace; and charging bulls, drenched with red froth. She
shuddered.
"What a brute!" she spoke aloud unintentionally.
Gheta glanced at her out of a cool superiority, but Anna Mantegazza
nodded vigorously.
"He would be a horrid person!" she affirmed.
"How silly!" Gheta responded. "It's an art, like the opera; he's an
artist in courage. Personally I find it rather fascinating. Most men
are so--so mild."
Lavinia knew that the other was thinking of Cesare Orsi, and she agreed
with her sister that Orsi was far too mild. Without the Orsi fortune--
he had much more even than Anna Mantegazza--Cesare would simply get
nowhere. The Spaniard--Lavinia could not recall his name, although it
hung elusively among her thoughts--was different; women of all classes,
Bembo had said, pursued him with favors.
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