“Never mind Sylvia,” said the young marchesa quietly. But she knew it was true.
“And Sicily is charming.”
“Are we to go to Sicily then?”
“Peppina has told me a great deal about it,” Mrs Maxwell continued, unheeding, “and I know it will be the very place to suit you. Let us go while the almond blossom is out. Next month. There, there—it’s settled; you’ll all bless me.”
Teresa ended by promising to consult her grandmother. But, in the restless fit which had come upon her, she owned that the idea was pleasant.
Chapter Twelve.
“Wasn’t I right? Come, confess that I was right?”
The question came of course from triumphant Mrs Maxwell, the centre of a group standing on the steps of the Greek theatre at Taormina. They looked on one side, over the rose-red ruins, at Etna, sweeping magnificently upwards into snow, at his purple slopes, his classic shore, then, facing round, they headed a sea divinely full of light, and saw across it aerial mountain ridges faintly cut against the sky.