It was towards evening, and the water was as smooth as glass and tinged with red.
Marcantonio was right after all. It was very dull in Sorrento, with no one but one's husband to speak to,—and he had made such a fuss about the cook's illness. Of course, it was very beautiful and all that; but life with the beauties of nature is so very tiresome after a time. She longed for some of her friends,—even her mother, she thought, would be a relief. But no one had called, excepting some very proper people of the Roman set, who all had gout and rheumatism and a dictionary-ful of diseases, and were taking sulphur baths at Castellamare.
She was wishing with all her might that some amusing person would call, when, as though in answer to her thoughts, a servant brought her a card. Then she yawned slightly, supposing it to be some toothless old princess of Rome or some other wearisome bore. But as she looked at the name,—"Mr. Julius Batiscombe,"—she gave a little start and her light fingers touched her lace and ribbons, and her thick hair, and she said she would receive.
Mr. Julius Batiscombe was a man of five and thirty years of age, and a person sure to attract attention anywhere. He was tall and looked strong, but he trod as lightly as a woman; none of his movements were clumsy or awkward. Not that he stepped daintily or affected any feminine grace of movement; there was something in his build and proportion that made it always seem easy for him to move, as though his strength were perfectly under control.
People were divided in opinion concerning his appearance. Some said he was handsome and some said he was coarse. Some said he was refined and some said he looked ill-tempered. As a matter of fact he had a rather small head, set upon a strong neck. His nose was large and broad, and decidedly aquiline, and he had a remarkably clean-cut and determined jaw. His mouth was comparatively too small for his face, but well shaped and well closed, shaded by a black moustache of very moderate dimensions. His blue eyes were set deep in his head and far apart. Of hair he had an unusual quantity, of a blue black colour, and he brushed it carefully. A single deep line scored its mark across, just above his brows. He had an odd way of looking at things, hiding the half of the iris under the upper lid, showing the white of the eye a little beneath the coloured portion. His complexion was of that brilliant kind which sometimes goes with black hair and blue eyes, and is known as an especial characteristic of the Irish race. Moreover he was noticeably well dressed, in a broad, neat fashion of quiet colour, and he wore no jewelry nor ornament except an old seal ring.
Opinions varied almost as much about Mr. Julius Batiscombe's character and reputation as about his claims to be thought good-looking. He had no intimate friends, or was supposed to have none; and he never answered many questions, because he asked none. It was known that he was an Englishman or an Irishman by birth, but that he had never lived long in his own country, whereas he seemed to have lived everywhere else under the sun.
"I am so glad you came to-day, Mr. Batiscombe," said Leonora after he was seated, and looking at him rather curiously.
He was the man who had stood in the doorway at the ball when Marcantonio offered himself to her. She knew him as well as she knew most of the stray foreigners who from time to time frequented Roman society. He had been in Rome all that winter, and she had met him two years earlier, when she first went out. He interested her, however, by a certain reserve of manner and by an air of "having a story about him"—as young ladies put it—which was unusual.
"I am very fortunate," he answered, with a slight inclination and a polite smile. "I called entirely at random. Somebody said you were coming here, and so I came to see if you had arrived."
"Yes," said Leonora, "we have been here several days, with all sorts of troubles on our hands. It is such very hard work to settle down, you know."