“Shall I draw the other curtain, signor?” he asked.
Colin glanced at Pamela, and there was no need to ask her what she preferred.
“Yes, Nino,” he said. “And clear away now. Just leave the cloth.”
All through dinner they had been gay on trivial topics, and again and again she had known that battery of swift glances like signals that he had cast on her, as if unable to take his eyes off her for long. Now she pushed back the cloak that she had thrown over her shoulders.
“Ah, that’s right,” he said, more to himself than her.
Though he laughed at himself for doing so, he often listened to the sound of the breeze, as if to a wordless and friendly counsellor.
“What a delightful evening you’re giving me, Pamela,” he said. “You wean me from myself with your splendour and your gaiety. I declare that since you came into my room before dinner I haven’t once thought of that letter I found waiting for me.”
“From Violet?” she said.
His eyebrows contracted as if with a twinge of pain.
“Yes. Oh, no bad news. Excellent news: she’s getting on wonderfully well without me. Hopes I am enjoying myself very much——”