"What has been the trouble?" inquired Mr. Batiscombe, glancing at the evidences of comfort that were scattered about.
"Oh—it is the cook," said Leonora with a little laugh; she was just beginning to feel the novelty of housekeeping, and she laughed at the mention of the cook, as though the idea amused her. "He has had a little fever, and my husband was dreadfully anxious about him. But he is quite recovered."
"I am very glad," said Mr. Batiscombe. "It must be a terrible bore to have one's cook ill. Did you get anything to eat in the meanwhile?"
And so forth, and so on, through a few dozen inanities. He would not make an original remark, being quite sure that Leonora would ultimately turn the conversation to some congenial subject.
"Shall you be in Rome next winter, Mr. Batiscombe?" she asked at length rather suddenly.
"It is rather doubtful," he answered slowly. "I am a great wanderer, you know, Marchesa. I can never say with any certainty where I shall be next."
He was looking at her and thinking what a splendid living thing she was, with the evening sun on her red hair. That was all he thought, but it gave him pleasure, and his glance lingered contentedly upon her, as upon a picture or a statue. He supposed from her remark that she wanted him to talk about himself, and he was willing to please her; but he was in no hurry, for he feared she would move and show herself in a less favourable light. She was so good to look at, that it was worth a visit to see her; and yet she was not a great beauty.
"I was thinking a little of going to the East," he added presently.
"But you have been there, have you not?"
"Not for a long time; and it will bear revisiting often,—very often. I mean to go there and study again as I did years ago. You have no idea how interesting those things are." Mr. Batiscombe looked thoughtfully out towards the sea.