Chapter Sixteen.
Teresa was in her room—the room the sisters shared—when Sylvia came in. The girl’s steps dragged with a suggestion of weariness, but she was smiling, and gave Teresa no impression of anything serious or sad having touched her life.
“Where is Nina?” she asked.
“Nina is going about singing mournfully—
“Venerdi e dì di Marte Non si sposa, e non si parte.
“We shall break Nina’s heart with all the bad luck we set to work to bring down on our devoted heads. To-morrow is Tuesday, and we travel.”
“Must we?” said Sylvia uneasily.
“Oh, baby!” She kissed her. “Well, I’m glad you’re at home. I believe there’s a thunderstorm on the way. Look at Etna.”
Clouds—dark, splendid clouds—were rolling up behind the great mountain. The light seemed suddenly to die out of the room.
“I hope it won’t come in the night,” said the girl. “Do you think it will? Of course, you don’t know; but I do think one sees it more in the dark.”