“Two hundred and five—eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari.” Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door.
“Ah! you don’t care if you get the profits. You won’t even say ‘Thank you, Gino.’ Say it, or I’ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. ‘Thank you, Gino—‘”
The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed.
There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, which she refused. She had not one word to say to him.
“What is it?” he repeated. “What has frightened you?”
He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan. For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone.
“Business—” she said at last.
“Business with me?”
“Most important business.” She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair.
“Before business you must get well; this is the best wine.”