The man by the
carriage moved deferentially forward and took the guitar. She could see
the minute pulsating sparks of cigarettes; heard a direction to the
driver. Abrego y Mochales and the other got into the cab and it turned
and shambled away. Lavinia Sanviano moved forward mechanically, gazing
after the dark vanishing shape on the road. She was shaken, almost
appalled, by the feeling that stirred her. A momentary terror of living
swept over her; the thrills persisted; her hands were icy cold. She had
been safely a child until now, when she had lost that small security,
and gained--what?
She studied herself, clad in her coarse nightgown with narrow lace, in
her inadequate mirror. The color had left her cheeks and her eyes shone
darkly from shadows. "Lavinia Sanviano!" she spoke aloud, with the
extraordinary sensation of addressing, in her reflection, a stranger.
She could never, never wear her hair down again, she thought with an
odd pang.
II
Gheta invariably took breakfast in her room. It was a larger chamber by
far than Lavinia's, toward the Via Garibaldi. A thick white bearskin
was spread by the canopied bed, an elaborate dressing table stood
between long windows drawn with ruffled pink silk, while the ceiling
bore a scaling ottocento frescoing of garlanded cupids. She was sitting
in bed, the chocolate pot on a painted table at her side, when Lavinia
entered.
A maid was putting soft paper in the sleeves of Gheta's ball dress, and
Lavinia, finding an unexpected reluctance to proceed with what she had
come to say, watched the servant's deft care.
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