The coffee was on when the elder sister said:
"I had a card from the Grand Hotel a while ago; Abrego y Mochales is
there."
"And there," Orsi put in promptly, "I hope he'll stay, or sail for
Spain. I don't want the clown about here."
Gheta turned.
"But you will regret that," she addressed Lavinia; "you always found
him so fascinating."
Lavinia's husband cleared his throat sharply; he was clearly
impatiently annoyed.
"What foolishness!" he cried. "From the first, Lavinia has been
scarcely conscious of his existence."
Lavinia avoided her sister's mocking gaze, disturbed and angry.
"Certainly Signore Mochales must be asked here," she declared.
"I suppose it can't be avoided," Orsi muttered.
It was arranged that the Spaniard should dine with them on the
following evening and Lavinia spent the intervening time in exploring
her emotions. She recognized now that Gheta hated both Cesare and
herself, and that she would miss no opportunity to force an awkward or
even dangerously unpleasant situation upon them. Gheta had sharpened in
being as well as in countenance to such a degree that Lavinia lost what
natural affection for her sister she had retained.
This, in a way, allied her with Cesare. She was now able at least to
survey him in a detached manner, with an impersonal comprehension of
his good qualities and aesthetic shortcomings; and in pointing out to
Gheta the lavish beauty of her--Lavinia's--surroundings, she engendered
in herself a slight proprietary pride.
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