Teresa turned pale. Naturally generous in all her thoughts and impulses, the dismal experiences of her life had added a more acute horror of injustice than often belongs to women. She said in a low voice—
“I must go to the questura instantly.”
“Wait half an hour. You are so tired,” urged Mrs Brodrick. But the marchesa had sprung to her feet.
“How can I?” she cried impatiently.
“I don’t know what steps Mr Wilbraham may have taken; but it is all my fault. I accused the man publicly, and have no right to keep him in that position a minute later than necessary. I wish I had left the horrid purse alone. His eyes have haunted me ever since.”
Mrs Brodrick, slower to move, still looked doubtful.
“I don’t like your going alone. People will talk.”
“Let them!” Donna Teresa drew herself up with a sudden hardening of her face. It softened again as she caught her grandmother’s look. “Dear, remember I am going to forget all about the marchesa. I have no children to be hurt by what I do, and don’t care the least little bit in the world for what may be said behind my back. But I care horribly for having made an unjust accusation, and it must be unsaid without delay.”
“Go, then,” said Mrs Brodrick, smiling again. She added hesitatingly, “You might take Sylvia.”
“Sylvia would not like it. I’ll be extravagant and take a botte instead.”