The rest stood by the entrance of the dining room. Anna
Mantegazza was laughing at a puzzled expression on the good-natured
countenance of Cesare Orsi; Gheta was slowly waving a fan of gilded
feathers; Abrego y Mochales was standing rigid and somberly handsome;
and, as usual, Pier Mantegazza was late.
Gheta Sanviano turned and saw Lavinia approaching, and the elder's
face, always pale, grew suddenly chalky; it was drawn, and the
wrinkles, carefully treated with paste, became visible about her eyes.
Her hands shook a little as she took a step forward.
"What does this mean, Lavinia?" she demanded. "Why did I know nothing
about that dress?"
"I knew nothing myself until a little bit ago," Lavinia explained
apologetically, filled with a formless pity for Gheta. "Isn't it
pretty? Anna Mantegazza gave it to me."
She could see, over Gheta's shoulder, Cesare Orsi staring at her in
idiotic surprise.
"Don't you like it, Gheta?" Anna asked.
Gheta Sanviano didn't answer, but closed her eyes for a moment in an
effort to control the anger that shone in them. The silence deepened to
constraint, and then she laughed lightly.
"Quite a woman of fashion!" she observed of Lavinia. "Fancy! It's a
pity that she must go back to the convent so soon."
Her eyes while she was speaking were directed toward Anna Mantegazza
and the resentment changed to hatred. The other shrugged her shoulders
indifferently and moved toward the dining room, catching Lavinia's arm
in her own.
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