There was in its case
a gilt hand mirror, into which she peered, and a ledge that pulled out,
with a crystal box for cigarettes and a spirit lighter. The Sanvianos
had only a landaulet, no longer in its first condition; and Lavinia
wondered why Gheta, who adored ease, had been so long in securing for
herself such comforts as Orsi's victoria.
They swept smoothly on rubber tires into the Lungarno and rapidly
approached her home. The carriage stopped before the familiar white
facade, built of marble in the pseudo-severity of the early nineteenth
century, and the porter swung open the great iron gate to the
courtyard. Lavinia mounted the square white shaft of the stairs to the
Sanvianos' floor with a deepening sense of injury. She would make it
plain to Gheta that she was no longer a child to be casually
overlooked.
A small room, used in connection with the dining room for coffee and
smoking, gave directly on the hall; there she saw her father sitting,
with his hat still on, his face stamped with an almost comical dismay,
and holding an unlighted cigar.
"Gheta left me at the Guarinis'," Lavinia halted impetuously. "If it
hadn't been for Signor Orsi I shouldn't be here yet; I was completely
ignored."
"Heavens!" her father exclaimed, waving her away. "Another feminine
catastrophe! Go to your sister and mother. My head is in a whirl."
Her mother, then, had returned. She went forward and was suddenly
startled by hearing Gheta's voice rise in a wail of despairing misery.
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