“I’m perfectly all right.”
We walked along together through the town and I chewed the coffee. At the gate of the driveway that led up to the British villa, Rinaldi said good-night.
“Good-night,” I said. “Why don’t you come in?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said, “I like the simpler pleasures.”
“Thank you for the coffee beans.”
“Nothing, baby. Nothing.”
I started down the driveway. The outlines of the cypresses that lined it were sharp and clear. I looked back and saw Rinaldi standing watching me and waved to him.
I sat in the reception hall of the villa, waiting for Catherine Barkley to come down. Some one was coming down the hall-way. I stood up, but it was not Catherine. It was Miss Ferguson.
“Hello,” she said. “Catherine asked me to tell you she was sorry she couldn’t see you this evening.”
“I’m so sorry. I hope she’s not ill.”