Almost mechanically she went upstairs to the pretty room that had been hers. She was too intensely excited to think. She could only feel. And throughout her whole life she had felt about her thoughts, rather than thought about her feelings. Less than ever did she try to analyze them now. She hastily gathered her things together, and piled them without folding into trunks and dressing-bag. She had not made up her mind where to go or what to do. The first thing and the most important thing was to get away from this house. Once away, breathing freer air, it would be time enough to plan.
As she packed furiously and unskilfully, she feared that Marie might come in and beg her forgiveness or try to explain. She felt that she could not bear this. And she shrank from the idea of seeing Marie again. She was afraid that she might be tempted to say something terrible. The one clear thought in her brain was the thought of Vanno; and he was in her mind as an image rather than a thought. She said over and over to herself almost stupidly as she prepared to leave Angelo's house: "If only Vanno were here—if only Vanno were here!"
Before she was ready to go she suddenly remembered that she must have a cab. Nothing would induce her to take Prince Della Robbia's car, even if it were offered. She rang for a servant, gave a generous present of money, and said that she had received news calling her away at once. A carriage must be found quickly.
As it happened, the descendant of the great French family was stationed at the edge of the olive wood with his little victoria. The weather had changed since morning. The mistral had begun to blow, and Jacques had found little to do, for people were keeping indoors. When Mary started, with one trunk on the front of the little cab, the world was very different from the happy blue and gold world of the morning. Had she been on foot, the gale sweeping down from Provence would have blown her like a rag from the path; and the small but sturdy horse seemed to lean on a wall of wind as he trotted toward Monte Carlo.
Mary had resolved to beg Rose Winter for a night's shelter. She believed it might be possible, without betraying the secret, to tell Rose that something disturbing had happened which had decided her to leave Prince Della Robbia's house. She felt sure of advice and welcome from the Winters, and she thought it probable that they would ask her to stop longer than the night; but she made up her mind in advance not to accept such an invitation. People who knew that she was visiting Princess Della Robbia would talk if they saw her in Monte Carlo, especially while Vanno was away. There had been more than enough gossip already. When she started for Monte Carlo she had no idea where to go after leaving Rose, as she determined to do next day; but it was as if a voice came to her on the wind, saying: "Why not stay at the Château Lontana?"
Mary caught at the suggestion. She had felt vaguely guilty in deciding that she could not grant Hannaford's wish, and live in his villa. It had seemed impossible to be happy there. She had thought that tragic memories would haunt the house and echo through the rooms, though strangers who knew nothing of Hannaford's story might find it a pleasant place. But now she was not asking or expecting happiness for the present. She wanted a refuge, where she might think and wait quietly, out of gossip's way—a place whence she could write Vanno: "When you come you will find me here."
As she said these words in her mind they took a different form. "If you come," she began; then stopped hastily and changed the "if" to "when." Vanno would come. She had done nothing because of which she deserved to lose him, and she would not lose him. Somehow, everything must be made to come right. She would think of a way.
In front of the big, balconied building where the Winters lived Jacques stopped and put Mary's small trunk and dressing-bag inside the door, while his little white horse stood tranquilly among passing motors. She asked him to call later at the Villa Mirasole for her other luggage, which she had already packed and labelled, and take it to the cloak-room at Monte Carlo railway station, where it could be called for. Then she paid him generously for everything, and won the man's heart by saying goodbye to his miniature dog, Pomponette.
Mary had no doubt that the Winters would take her in for the night; and it was a blow to be told by Nathalie that Monsieur and Madame had gone to Nice to bring back the aunt of Monsieur who had fallen ill at a hotel. They would return by the train arriving at seven. Would Mademoiselle wait or look in again?
Mary hesitated, not knowing how to rearrange her plans. It was evident, as the dreaded aunt had come down upon them after all, that the Winters could not keep another guest even for a night, unless they made a bed in the drawing-room, or the chaplain went out and gave up his share of Rose's room. But Mary did not think for an instant of putting her friends to this inconvenience.