“Ah! I'm glad you find it so. Then I have hope.”
She merely smiled, indifferent.
The teaparty began to break up—Aaron found himself going down the stairs with the Marchesa and her husband. They descended all three in silence, husband and wife in front. Once outside the door, the husband asked:
“How shall we go home, dear? Tram or carriage—?” It was evident he was economical.
“Walk,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Aaron. “We are all going the same way, I believe.”
Aaron said where he lived. They were just across the river. And so all three proceeded to walk through the town.
“You are sure it won't be too much for you—too far?” said the little officer, taking his wife's arm solicitously. She was taller than he. But he was a spirited fellow.
“No, I feel like walking.”
“So long as you don't have to pay for it afterwards.”
Aaron gathered that she was not well. Yet she did not look ill—unless it were nerves. She had that peculiar heavy remote quality of pre-occupation and neurosis.