CHAPTER VII
If Giuliana Parenzo had been one of those nervous, sensitive women who are always thinking about themselves and fancying that their friends are on the point of betraying them, she would have noticed a little change in Maria’s manner after Castiglione’s visit to Rome. It was not that Maria was at all less fond of her than before, or less affectionate, or apparently less glad to see her. It was much more subtle than that. There is a great difference between a hungry man and a man who merely has an appetite. The one must have food, the other is only pleased to have it. Giuliana’s friendship had long been a necessity to Maria, but it now sank to the condition of being merely an added satisfaction in her life. Formerly she would not have given it up for anything else; but now, if she could have been forced to choose between Castiglione and Giuliana, she would have given up her friend.
The Marchesa, however, was not a sensitive or nervous woman, and she noticed nothing of the change that had taken place. She was therefore very much surprised when her husband spoke to her about Maria. It was late in the afternoon, some days after Castiglione had gone back to Milan, and Parenzo had come home tired from the Foreign Office and was smoking in his wife’s dressing-room, which was his favourite resort at that hour. Like many busy women, Giuliana had her writing-table there, in order to be safe from interruption, and she was occupied with some notes which had to be finished before dinner, while her husband sat in a low straw chair watching her, and devising a new costume for their approaching trip to England. He had always considered it his especial mission to superintend his wife’s dress, and his taste was admirable. He was a small wiry man with a neat reddish beard, not much hair on the top of his head, and a single eyeglass. But he had an energetic nose and forehead, and a singularly pleasant smile.
Giuliana finished one of her notes and looked up, and instantly the smile came into his face, for he was quite as much in love with her as when he had married her. She looked pleased, and nodded to him before taking another sheet of paper.
‘I wanted to ask you about Maria Montalto,’ he said suddenly, arresting her attention.
Giuliana looked a little surprised, and laid down her pen.
‘Yes, dear. What do you wish to know about her?’
‘You are just as intimate with her as ever, are you not?’ he inquired.
‘Oh, yes! What could come between us? Why do you ask?’