She got up in silence, just pressed his arm, and went up the gravelled path towards the house. Colin was about to follow when, looking over the garden-wall, he saw Nino’s figure coming up the path, and remembered he had told him that, if he were in the town, he might come up to the villa, and receive the liras he was owed for his boat this morning.
Instantly the picture of sitting with Nino out here in the dusk, with a bottle of wine between them, presented itself. Gay and garrulous would Nino be, that bright-eyed, laughing Faun, more Faun-like than ever at night, with Tiberian or more modern tales and wonderful gesticulations. That would be a welcome relaxation after this tragic, irritating talk with Violet; he was much more attuned to Nino’s philosophy. Indoors there would be a game of piquet with those foolish pasteboard counterfeits of kings and queens and knaves, and five liras as the result of all that dealing and meditation and exchange of cards. That knave Nino would be far more amusing.... And even piquet was not the worst of the tedium he would find indoors. There was Violet, clearly very much upset by his tale; she would be full of yearnings and squeezings and emotional spasms. To-morrow she would be more herself again, and would bring a lighter touch to life than she would be disposed to give it to-night. He really could not spend the evening with Violet if it could possibly be avoided.
He called in a low voice to Nino:
“Signor!” said Nino, with gay, upturned face.
“Wait ten minutes, Nino,” he whispered. “If I don’t come out again, you must go. I shall want your boat to-morrow morning. But wait ten minutes, and then, perhaps, I shall be able to give you a glass of wine and hear more stories, if you have half an hour to spare.”
“Si, signor,” whispered Nino, pleased at this mystification and intrigue.
Colin followed quickly after Violet. She was in the big studio, where a cardtable was laid, walking up and down still horrified and agitated. She placed her hands on Colin’s shoulders and dropped her head there. It required all his self-control not to jerk himself free.
“Oh, Colin!” she said. “The horror of it. How can I ever speak to Raymond again? I wish you hadn’t told me.”
There was blame in this, but he waived his resentment at that for the present.
“I wish I hadn’t indeed, darling,” he said, “if it’s disturbed you so much, and I’m afraid it has. Go to bed now; you look awfully tired; we won’t have our piquet to-night. We shall neither of us attend.”