"Why, this--this donkey hints that there was something improper in my
present. It seems that I have been annoying Gheta by my attentions,
flattering her with pearls."
"Did Gheta tell you that?" Lavinia demanded. A growing resentment took
possession of her. "Because if she did, she lied!"
"Ah!" Mochales whispered sharply.
"They're both mad," Orsi told her, "and should be dipped in the bay."
Never had Abrego y Mochales appeared handsomer; never more like fine
bronze. That latter fact struck her forcibly. His face was no more
mutable than a mask of metal. Its stark rigidity sent a cold tremor to
her heart.
"And," she went on impetuously, "since Gheta said that, I'll tell you
really about this necklace: Cesare gave it to her because he was sorry
for her; because he thought that perhaps he had misled her. He spoke of
it to me first."
"No, signora," the Spaniard responded deliberately; "it is not your
sister who lies."
Cesare Orsi exclaimed angrily. He took a hasty step; but Lavinia,
quicker, moved between the two men.
"This is impossible," she declared, "and must stop immediately! It is
childish!"
There was now a metallic ring in Mochales' voice that disturbed her
even more than his words. The bull-fighter, completely immobile, seemed
a little inhuman; he was without a visible stir of emotion, but Orsi
looked more puzzled and angry every moment.
"This," he ejaculated, "in my own house--infamous!"
"Signor Mochales," Lavinia reiterated, "what I have told you is
absolutely so.
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