‘You know my nephew well—is it not so?’
‘I once knew Philip Debenham well, intimately I might say; but the master of that great house yonder—I cannot say he is a great friend of mine.’
‘How do you mean, Monsieur?’
The Italian smiled and shrugged, with a gesture far more significant than words.
‘Ah, Madame, we all learn the lesson of life; times change, and friends too—with circumstances such as these, it is often the case.’
‘Has Philip Debenham changed so much?’
‘So it appears to me; but I may be mistaken. My memory may be defective.’
‘I do not think Philip could ever have been so very different from what he is now,’ said Roma. ‘He strikes me as a man who would change singularly little. He is so independent of other people and their opinions.’
‘Mademoiselle is perfectly right there,’ answered the Italian. ‘He goes his own way, without in any way considering what may be the effect upon others.’
Roma smiled and shook her head. Her colour was a little warmer than usual. She was perfectly aware that the Signor was jealous of Philip Debenham. There was no need that he should be so; but she could not tell him that, and she could not be very hard upon him if he did feel somewhat bitter against his rival. Roma knew well that this man loved her, and his love gave her a deep-seated sense of joy, as well as some embarrassment and pain.