Leonora had vanity enough of a certain kind, but it was not personal. She doubted her own powers and gifts more than she need have done, and there was enough uncertainty about her own affection to make her uncertain of her husband's love. In the meanwhile she was bored since Mr. Batiscombe had gone, and she wished Marcantonio would talk and amuse her. But when he did begin to say something it was about local Roman politics, and she understood nothing about that sort of thing. She longed more and more for "a sensation." It would probably be different to-morrow, for her moods seldom lasted long. But this evening it was intolerable. She made the most absent-minded answers to her husband's remarks, and seemed so impatient that he suggested she must be tired and had better go to bed.
"But I am not tired at all—on the contrary," she objected. "There is nothing to tire me here,—a little driving, a great deal of sitting on the terrace, a great deal of reading, and very little conversation"—
"Very little conversation!" exclaimed Marcantonio. "Mais, ma chère, here it is two hours we have been talking, without counting the visit of the gentleman who walks like a cat—Bat—Botis—I cannot say his name, but I know him."
"Ah, yes—Mr. Batiscombe. Yes," said Leonora languidly, "he was very amusing. He talked about all sorts of things."
"Shall we ask him to pass a few days with us? I should be very glad, if you like him."
Marcantonio was really delighted to do anything his wife might wish. Leonora was touched. He was sitting beside her, and she put her arms round his neck and laid her head on his shoulder.
"You are so good," she said in a low voice. "Oh, I do not want anybody else here at all. I only want you—but all of you—and I feel as though I had not all yet."
For the moment she really loved him. He gently smoothed her hair with his delicate, olive-tinted hand.
Meanwhile Mr. Julius Batiscombe had gone to his hotel, and, having eaten his dinner, was sitting on the tiled terrace over the sea, with a cup of coffee at his elbow, and a cigarette in his mouth. There were lamps on the terrace, and there was starlight on the water, and Mr. Batiscombe was alone at his small table.
"I wish I had not gone there. I wish I had not asked them to go to Castellamare. I wish I were at sea in my boat." He said these things over and over to himself, and now and again he smiled a little scornfully, and sipped his coffee.