She met Abrego y Mochales at the
basin with a direct bright smile, standing firmly upon her wall.
Against the blue water shadowed by the promise of dusk he was a somber
and splendid figure. Her heart undeniably beat faster and she was vexed
when he turned immediately to Gheta. His greeting was intensely
serious, his gaze so hungry that Lavinia looked away. It was vulgar,
she told herself. Cesare met them above and greeted Mochales with a
superficial heartiness. It was difficult for Cesare Orsi to conceal his
opinions and feelings. The other man's gravity was superb.
At dinner conversation languished. Gheta, in a very low dress, had a
bright red scarf about her shoulders, and was painted. This was so
unusual that it had almost the effect of a disguise; her eyes were
staring and brilliant, her fingers constantly fidgeting and creasing
her napkin. Afterward she walked with Mochales to the corner of the
belvedere, where they had all been sitting, and from there drifted the
low continuous murmur of her voice, briefly punctuated by a deep
masculine note of interrogation. Below, the water was invisible in the
wrap of night. Naples shone like a pale gold net drawn about the sweep
of its hills. A glow like a thumb print hung over Vesuvius; the hidden
column of smoke smudged the stars.
Lavinia grew restless and descended to her room, where she procured a
fan. Returning, she was partly startled by a pale still figure in the
gloom of a passage.
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