“Did he want you to go to Naples?” asked Mrs. Mackinnon.
“Yes; that was what he suggested. We were to leave by the train for Civita Vecchia at six to-morrow morning and catch the steamer which leaves Leghorn to-night. Don’t tell me of wine. He was prepared for it!” And she looked round about on us with an air of injured majesty in her face which was almost insupportable.
“I wonder whether he took the tickets over-night,” said Mackinnon.
“Naples!” she said, as though now speaking exclusively to herself; “the only ground in Italy which has as yet made no struggle on behalf of freedom;—a fitting residence for such a dastard!”
“You would have found it very pleasant at this season,” said the unmarried lady, who was three years her junior.
My wife had taken Ida out of the way when the first complaining note from Mrs. Talboys had been heard ascending the hill. But now, when matters began gradually to become quiescent, she brought her back, suggesting, as she did so, that they might begin to think of returning.
“It is getting very cold, Ida, dear, is it not?” said she.
“But where is Mr. O’Brien?” said Ida.
“He has fled,—as poltroons always fly,” said Mrs. Talboys. I believe in my heart that she would have been glad to have had him there in the middle of the circle, and to have triumphed over him publicly among us all. No feeling of shame would have kept her silent for a moment.
“Fled!” said Ida, looking up into her mother’s face.