“I have not a relative in the world,” she replied. “I am living with Lady Despard. I am her companion.”
“Lady Despard?” he put his white hand to his head. “Lady Despard? I—I think I know her. And you are living with her? I envy her her companion, my dear. I will do myself the honor of calling upon her. Tell me your name again. I—I forget, sometimes. I am very old, older than you think, because you see I am so strong still. You smile?” sharply.
“No, no, I did not smile, indeed!” said Doris, quickly. “But I do not think you are strong enough—you have told me that you have been ill, you know—to walk about alone.”
He sighed, and shrugged his shoulders, with a mirthless smile.
“Alone. I have only a valet, and I hate to have him with me. I had a wife once”—he stopped, and looked darkly before him—“she left me—she died, I mean, of course and I’ve no one else. I had a child, a little girl, but she died, too. You see, I am like you somewhat, though I have other relations who, doubtless, wish that I would die also,” and he smiled, cynically.
Doris shrank a little, then, ashamed of the momentary repugnance, said, gently:
“That is not true, I am sure. And now, will you tell me where you live? I will come with you if you will let me. Or will you come with me to Lady Despard’s, and have her carriage?”
He shook his head and straightened himself.
“I have the Villa Vittoria,” he said.
Doris knew it. It was the largest, and, after Lady Despard’s, the handsomest in Pescia.