"Were you at church this morning, Miss Meredith?" asked the old Marchese, kindly, as the figs and chestnuts were put on the table.
It was the first time that any one had addressed me directly throughout the meal, and I blushed hotly as I gave my answer.
The departure of Costanza, her boxes and her maid, was of course the great event of the afternoon.
The three gentlemen and Annunziata drove with her to the station, and I was left behind with my pupil and her mother.
A stiff bow from Costanza, a glare through her double eyeglass, and a contemptuous "Good-bye, Miss," in English, had not tended to raise my spirits. To be an object of universal dislike was an experience as new as it was unpleasant, and I was losing confidence in myself with every hour.
Even Bianca had deserted me, and, ensconced close to her mother, shot glances at me of her early curiosity and criticism.
As for the Marchesa, that inscrutable person scarcely stopped talking all the afternoon, rattling on in her dry, colourless way about nothing at all. Speech was to her the shield and buckler which silence is to persons less gifted. Behind her own volubility she could withdraw as behind a bulwark, whence she made observations safe from being herself observed.
I was quite worn out by eight o'clock, when the usual Sunday visitors began to arrive.
With my work in my hand, I sat on the outskirts of the throng, not working indeed, but pondering deeply.
"Miss Meredith, you are very industrious."