The sale was progressing in one of the larger salons, but the crowd
circulated in a slow solid undulation through every room. Gheta and
Anna Mantegazza had sought the familiar comfortable corner of an
entresol, and were seated. Lavinia was standing tensely, with a
laboring breast, when Bembo suddenly appeared with the man whom he had
called the Flower of Spain.
"The Contessa Mantegazza," Bembo said suavely, "Signorina Sanviano,
this is Abrego y Mochales."
The bull-fighter bowed with magnificent flexibility. A hot resentment
possessed Lavinia at Bembo's apparent ignoring of her; but he had not
seen her at first and hastened to repair his omission. Lavinia inclined
her head stiffly. An increasing confusion enveloped her, but she forced
herself to gaze directly into Mochales' still black eyes. His face, she
saw, was gaunt, the ridges of his skull apparent under the bronzed
skin. His hair, worn in a queue, was pinned in a flat disk on his head,
and small gold loops had been riveted in his ears; but these
peculiarities of garb were lost in the man's intense virility, his
patent brute force. His fine perfumed linen, the touch of scarlet at
his waist, his extremely high-heeled patent-leather boots under soft
uncreased trousers, served only to emphasize his resolute metal--they
resembled an embroidered and tasseled scabbard that held a keen, thin
and dangerous blade.
Anna Mantegazza extended her hand in the American fashion, and Gheta
smiled from--Lavinia saw--her best facial angle.
Pages:
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102