“Her mother is ambitious, and of course urges her on. But I think what Miss Davis cares for most is the opportunity to do good with her money.”
“No, no,” said Madame Ghita quickly; “a man might believe that, but not a woman! There is something beside that—there must be—something more personal, more passionate. I am sure of it. If I could only see her! Well, it may be possible—why not? I would invite her to open her heart to me, as I should open mine to her, and together we would decide. Yes, yes—that would make it easy!”
A donkey-engine which had been unloading coal from a steamer beside the quay gave a shrill shriek with its whistle and abruptly stopped. There came a tinkle of bells from the ships in the harbour.
“Twelve o’clock!” cried Madame Ghita. “Can it be? I must be going! Where are those children? Come, we must look for them.”
The children were discovered not far away, leaning over the balustrade, watching a low Italian destroyer which was steaming rapidly along the coast, and working assiduously at their languages—French for Davis, English for Cicette. They seemed to be progressing very satisfactorily among the tenses of “aimer”—though Cicette found it difficult to get exactly the correct sound of the “o” in love, and Davis thought the way she said it much prettier than the right way—as, indeed, on her lips it was.
Madame Ghita broke in upon them without compunction.
“Come, Cicette,” she said. “Bid adieu to the gentlemen—we must be going. It is very late.”
Selden, looking at her more carefully than he had taken the trouble to do before, found her much less ordinary than she had seemed at first glance. Her face was yet a girl’s, but it gave promise of character as well as beauty. Davis might well do worse!
“But look here,” Davis protested, “I won’t see you again till evening, then! Why can’t I take Cicette to lunch?”
“Impossible!” said madame firmly. “I have her reputation to consider,” and she led her charge away.