“She is rather in love with me,” thought Colin, “and very likely my letter will drive her into accepting him. But if only I can keep cool and pleasant, she’ll never marry him. Devilish ingenious! And then there’s Raymond!”
Colin laughed aloud as he thought of Raymond, who really lay at the bottom of all these plans. Even if it had been possible now, before Violet accepted him, to intervene in some way and cause her to refuse instead of to take him, he would not have stirred a finger, for thus he would baulk himself of the completeness of Raymond’s discomfiture, since Raymond would feel the breaking off of his engagement more bitterly than an original refusal. Let Violet accept him first and then throw him over. That would be a real counter-irritant to the sting of Raymond’s primogeniture, an appreciable counterweight to his future possession of Stanier.
It had been a check in that fraternal feud that Raymond’s birth and his own were certainly legitimate, and that nothing now could stand in the way of his brother’s succession, but if the check in that direction had not occurred, there would never have been any chance of Violet’s marrying him, and Raymond would have been spared the wounding humiliation which instinctively, Colin felt sure, was to be dealt him. Raymond was genuinely desirous of her; he would feel her loss very shrewdly. If only, by some diabolical good fortune, Raymond could lose them both! Colin saw himself, Violet by his side, smilingly observing Raymond’s final departure from Stanier, and hoping that he would have a pleasant journey.
Alas! it was time to swim shorewards again, for the morning boat from Naples which was carrying Salvatore Viagi had already gone by on its tourist route to the Blue Grotto, and Salvatore would have disembarked at the Marina. He felt curious to see Uncle Salvatore, and was determined to make himself uncommonly pleasant, for there might be things which Salvatore knew which his father had not told him. The date of the marriage, for instance; though he despaired of any practical use arising from that, Colin would like to know when it took place.
He dressed and strolled up through the vineyards through which, twenty-one years ago, his father had gone, tasting for the first time the liberty and gaiety of the South, and found his little jingling conveyance awaiting him. His quiet concentrated hate of Raymond sat smiling beside him up the dusty road, and he rejoiced in its companionship.
Colin found that Salvatore had arrived, and his father was waiting lunch for him, and so without decoration of himself in the way of brushings or putting on tie or socks, he went straight to the salon. There was sitting there a very gorgeously-dressed gentleman, and his heart fell as he saw him, for it would be difficult to cultivate cordial relationships with so exquisite a bounder, whatever information might be the reward of his efforts.
Salvatore was clad in ill-fitting broadcloth, florid with braid; he wore patent leather shoes, a tie of pink billows in which nestled a preposterous emerald, cuffs and collar clearly detachable, and a gold watch-chain from which a large, cheap locket depended. Luxuriant hair, suspiciously golden and carefully curled, crowned his face; fierce moustaches, brushed and waxed, were trained away to show a mouth full of dazzling teeth, and his features were just those of a wax bust, representing the acme of masculine beauty, that may be seen in the window of a hairdresser.
With this troubadour was sitting his father, stiff and starched and iced. Colin guessed that this period of waiting had been embarrassing, for both seemed highly relieved at his entry, and the troubadour bounded to his feet with a tenor cry of welcome.
“Collino mio!” he exclaimed, kissing him, to Colin’s great surprise, on both cheeks. “Ah, the joy of the day when I behold my own nephew! And you are so like her, so like her. Look on the image of her which I ever carry about with me! I do not forget her, no, no!”
He opened the locket, and showed Colin a photograph faded into illegibility.