"I do not find you at all amiable," the contessa pouted. "I am serious—very serious, and you make fun."
"Not at all. I am very serious, and you talk of fairy tales. Still, if you are my fairy godmother, there is no knowing what stroke of fortune may await me in Sicily." Then, changing his tone, he said earnestly: "I am really sorry, but I am afraid I shall have to leave the picture question until I come back."
"You are going straight off to Sicily?"
"Yes."
"To be gone how long?"
"I don't know; I have no idea. Weeks, perhaps. Months, very likely; why do you ask?"
"May I say something—something very frank to you?" Zoya leaned forward with a sudden direct impulse.
"Say what you please, by all means!" Derby braced himself for her remark, but even so he colored as she said: "Are you in love with Nina? Please, don't be angry; I don't ask you to answer. But if you are, I can't see why you go away to work mines and such things. I should have married her long ago had I been you."
Derby's eyes blazed. "Do you mean I should try to marry her and live on her money?"
"Why not? Since she has enough for two—enough for twenty! There is no need to be so furious. Per l'amore di Dio! You Americans have always the ears up, listening for a sound that you can fly at!" Languorously she leaned back among the cushions of the sofa. "It is all so silly—your idea of life." And then she stopped and looked at him curiously. "What is your idea of life?"