“Do you suppose I will allow you to dictate to me?” she said, looking at Trent with flashing eyes.
“Your mother is not here,” he said, biting his lips.
“There is Brigitta—”
The servant had retired into the anteroom; Bice was moving towards him, when Trent placed himself before her.
“Listen to reason,” he said beseechingly. “I tell you I can’t promise to keep my temper with this man.”
“And what do I care!” she retorted. “Are you afraid of him? I don’t suppose he comes to see you, and so if you like you can go away. Certainly I shall receive him.”
The girl had changed in some way or other. Her beauty was, if possible, more remarkable than ever, so large were her eyes, and so curved the lines of her mouth, but instead of the frank and open manner which had been as simple as that of a child, there was noticeable a touch of hard recklessness, of defiance which was almost like despair. Young Moroni, standing by, had also changed. He had grown older, and now looked from one to the other, understanding nothing of the words, but aware that something was amiss, and ready at a sign from Bice to fling himself upon the other man. He, poor fellow, was feeling as if all his old hopes had come to an end. Trent was very pale, but had recovered his coolness. He said scornfully,—
“No, I am not quite such a fool. I imagine the meeting will be less agreeable for him than for me, on the whole. But these knight-errants of yours, my dear Bice, should learn to conduct themselves less offensively when they meddle with what does not concern them. Pray, is this other also to take part in the coming interview?”
“He will not be the wiser,” said the girl indifferently. Her anger seemed to have died out, and she said a few careless words to Moroni, who brightened, nodded, and took a newspaper with him into a recess where he was half hidden by a heavy yellow curtain. Then she walked to the door and threw it open. “Ask the English gentleman to come in,” she said to the servant who was waiting, and came back to the middle of the room, flinging a triumphant and haughty glance at Trent.
As for him in these moments he had rapidly reviewed his position. Ever since he had heard of Ibbetson’s sudden arrival in Rome, he had known that this meeting must in all probability take place, and had prepared for it, thinking carefully over his chances, so that it did not take him by surprise, although he had had a faint hope of inducing Bice to refuse to see him. He had played a bold game, calculating that interest and the hope of regaining his uncle’s favour would keep Ibbetson in England, and managing to persuade Bice that he was misjudged from having really befriended Clive. What was she to think! Clive’s own letters almost took his part; she had already promised, and was sick at heart, while her strong will failed in spite of its bold front. Trent had worked warily with her, and had all but won. But at this moment, though this flashed through his mind, and though he was well aware how perilous was his position and how much depended on his own coolness and audacity, he felt despairingly that he was not cool. He loved this girl so passionately that it irritated him almost beyond endurance to feel that the man he looked upon as his rival was eagerly welcomed by her in the face of his expressed wish. No dread of possible consequences fell upon him so painfully as this fact.