“I’m a fool,” he argued with himself. “She was excited, overwrought. She loves me. And perhaps there’s something she’ll tell me later.”
He had offered his services to his friend Ballau after dinner.
“There’s nothing you can do except mess up things,” Ballau remonstrated. “I suggest a long, fatiguing walk.”
He had smiled kindly and De Medici, unable to dissemble his cat-like nervousness, had blurted out:
“I find it almost impossible to wait.”
“The guests will be here around eleven,” Ballau had answered. “Go walk around till then and don’t get run over or fall down any manholes.”
Entering the theater, De Medici looked around the back stage quickly for a glimpse of Florence. The wings were crowded with actors and actresses waiting the rise of the third-act curtain.
“Where’s Miss Ballau?” he inquired of Cort, the stage manager.
Cort, a sour-looking man with the disillusions and sophistications of his profession stamped on his face, turned angrily.
“Oh, hello!” he said, noticing De Medici. “We’ve had the devil of a time.”