"You always satisfied me, Lavinia, with your dark smooth plait and
white simplicity; you were cool and refreshing. Now they have made you
only disturbing. I suppose it was inevitable, and with you the change
will be temporary."
"I'll never let my hair down again," she retorted. "I've settled that
with Gheta. Mother didn't care, really."
She was annoyed by the implied criticism, his entire lack of response
to her new being. He had grown blind staring at his stupid old coins.
A step sounded behind her; she turned hopefully, but it was only Cesare
Orsi.
"The others have gone outside," he told her, and she noticed that the
piano had stopped.
Mantegazza rose and bowed in mock serious formality, at which Lavinia
shrugged an impatient shoulder and walked with Orsi across the room and
out upon the terrace.
Florence had sunk into a dark chasm of night, except for the curving
double row of lights that marked the Lungarno and the indifferent
illumination of a few principal squares. The stars seemed big and near
in deep blue space. Orsi was standing very close to her, and she moved
away; but he followed.
"Lavinia," he muttered, and suddenly his arm was about her waist.
She leaned back, pushing with both hands against his chest; but he
swept her irresistibly up to him and kissed her clumsily. A cold rage
possessed her. She stopped struggling; yet there was no need to
continue--he released her immediately and opened a stammering apology.
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