strong feeling that, like herself and the Conte, he wasn’t really in the mood for conversation, but now she supposed that it was time she made an effort.
“I was thinking what a wonderful room this is.” It was partly true, for the Contessa’s marble dining-room was everything her green salotto led one to expect.
“You think this house is beautiful?”
“Of course—very beautiful.”
“You should see the Palazzo Lucca. It is one of the bright jewels of the Renaissance.” He glanced along the table at Michele. “Unfortunately, it belongs now to my nephew ... ” So that was it. She had realized he was a relative, but not that he was the Conte’s uncle. “He is young and unmarried, and has use for nothing but a corner of it, so the rest is shut up. Tell me, signorina , don’t you think my nephew should marry?”
She hesitated, for some reason finding the question faintly embarrassing. “Well, yes ... of course. But I don’t suppose it will be very long—”
“No?” he interrupted. He glanced at the girl in pale blue voile, whose slanting sloe-like eyes were fixed on Michele’s face as if her life depended on not missing a flicker of his eyelids, and automatically Candy looked in the same direction. “That one, do you think? Her father is a Milanese industrialist, with more money than even her mother can find a use for, and she has had the very best education.”
“Well....” Candy said again, and her companion laughed and tilted his wine glass to admire the glowing crimson of its contents.
“Don’t listen to me, Miss Wells. I have drunk too much this evening, and before I go home I shall drink more ... a lot more. I am—how do you say it ? —the black sheep of the di Lucca family.”
She turned to look at him with interest. As far as she knew she had never met a ‘black sheep’ before, and she wasn’t really in a position to judge, but she wouldn’t have said, if she had been asked, that this ageing, benevolent Italian looked at all the type.
“I don’t think you’re very black,” she said, and smiled.
“Thank you, my little one.” Her hand was lying on the table, and he put his wine-glass down and patted it. “You are undoubtedly the princess in the fairy-story who turns frogs into princes ... a refreshing addition to my sister-in-law’s weary circle of friends.” He turned his head away from her, and she saw that he was gazing at John Ryland as if he felt that some other recent additions were rather less refreshing.
After dinner, back in the splendid green salotto, John continued to monopolize his hostess more or less completely, and the Italian mother-and-daughter team continued to occupy the Conte. Marco di Lucca disappeared, and all at once Candy found herself quite alone. She walked over to one of the high windows, and cautiously parted the curtains. Outside the night was clear and starlit, with just a trace of light wind to shake the rustling palm fronds and stir the dark heads of the cypresses. It was beautiful and romantic, and it made her want to cry. Behind her in the room, she could hear John’s voice talking to the Contessa—during the whole of the evening he had scarcely addressed a word to her, Candy—and the desolation which she had thought she could put behind her by absorbing herself in her new work and ambitions came rushing over her again, swamping her with misery, flooding her entire being with an abject dejection that actually seemed to drain her strength way—to rob her of the energy she needed to cope with life. Enormous tears forced their way beneath her eyelids and cascaded silently down her cheeks, and but for the fact that her sense of utter isolation made her feel almost that she was alone in the room she would have been paralysed with horror. As it was, it simply didn’t occur to her that someone might suddenly decide to find out what she was doing with herself, and when all at once a voice just behind her spoke her name her heart jumped very
“I was thinking what a wonderful room this is.” It was partly true, for the Contessa’s marble dining-room was everything her green salotto led one to expect.
“You think this house is beautiful?”
“Of course—very beautiful.”
“You should see the Palazzo Lucca. It is one of the bright jewels of the Renaissance.” He glanced along the table at Michele. “Unfortunately, it belongs now to my nephew ... ” So that was it. She had realized he was a relative, but not that he was the Conte’s uncle. “He is young and unmarried, and has use for nothing but a corner of it, so the rest is shut up. Tell me, signorina , don’t you think my nephew should marry?”
She hesitated, for some reason finding the question faintly embarrassing. “Well, yes ... of course. But I don’t suppose it will be very long—”
“No?” he interrupted. He glanced at the girl in pale blue voile, whose slanting sloe-like eyes were fixed on Michele’s face as if her life depended on not missing a flicker of his eyelids, and automatically Candy looked in the same direction. “That one, do you think? Her father is a Milanese industrialist, with more money than even her mother can find a use for, and she has had the very best education.”
“Well....” Candy said again, and her companion laughed and tilted his wine glass to admire the glowing crimson of its contents.
“Don’t listen to me, Miss Wells. I have drunk too much this evening, and before I go home I shall drink more ... a lot more. I am—how do you say it ? —the black sheep of the di Lucca family.”
She turned to look at him with interest. As far as she knew she had never met a ‘black sheep’ before, and she wasn’t really in a position to judge, but she wouldn’t have said, if she had been asked, that this ageing, benevolent Italian looked at all the type.
“I don’t think you’re very black,” she said, and smiled.
“Thank you, my little one.” Her hand was lying on the table, and he put his wine-glass down and patted it. “You are undoubtedly the princess in the fairy-story who turns frogs into princes ... a refreshing addition to my sister-in-law’s weary circle of friends.” He turned his head away from her, and she saw that he was gazing at John Ryland as if he felt that some other recent additions were rather less refreshing.
After dinner, back in the splendid green salotto, John continued to monopolize his hostess more or less completely, and the Italian mother-and-daughter team continued to occupy the Conte. Marco di Lucca disappeared, and all at once Candy found herself quite alone. She walked over to one of the high windows, and cautiously parted the curtains. Outside the night was clear and starlit, with just a trace of light wind to shake the rustling palm fronds and stir the dark heads of the cypresses. It was beautiful and romantic, and it made her want to cry. Behind her in the room, she could hear John’s voice talking to the Contessa—during the whole of the evening he had scarcely addressed a word to her, Candy—and the desolation which she had thought she could put behind her by absorbing herself in her new work and ambitions came rushing over her again, swamping her with misery, flooding her entire being with an abject dejection that actually seemed to drain her strength way—to rob her of the energy she needed to cope with life. Enormous tears forced their way beneath her eyelids and cascaded silently down her cheeks, and but for the fact that her sense of utter isolation made her feel almost that she was alone in the room she would have been paralysed with horror. As it was, it simply didn’t occur to her that someone might suddenly decide to find out what she was doing with herself, and when all at once a voice just behind her spoke her name her heart jumped very
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