“Then I must,” she said. “I’m afraid I shan’t persuade him, because, of course, I never can—but I must try. It’s all so funny, isn’t it?”
“It’s horribly sad,” said Teresa to herself, “but certainly there will be no fear of the man staying. If it had been earlier in the day, he might have packed himself off at once. As it is, for a few hours, one must make the best of him and of it, and be thankful,”—she sighed—“that it has ended. I never wish to see him again. Oh, Sylvia, my little Sylvia! And I daresay he is persuading himself she doesn’t feel.”
“I think I shall go and talk to Nina,” said the girl. Her eyes looked bright, and a feverish spot burned in each cheek.
“Dear—stay here.”
“Must I?” The old wistful dependence upon Teresa had come back. “I think it’s going to thunder, and that always frightens me. Nina says things which are nice.”
“Lie down on your bed. I’ll hang up something over the window; Nina shall come and sit with you, and you’ll find yourself asleep before you know where you are. I’ll come back before dinner.”
“Nina is going to make me some latte di gallina to-night,” said Sylvia, unresisting.
Teresa made her lie down, covered, coaxed, kissed her, then shrouded the window, guiltless of shutters. Nothing could be seen of Etna behind heavy menacing clouds which swept stormily up, and drifted sullenly along the purple slopes. The sea was lashing its white wild waves, which raced and plunged and flung themselves each on the other. Sylvia chattered about a hundred trifles—what Mary Maxwell had heard from England; whether her hat could not go in with Teresa’s; whether they had really better start on a Tuesday. If Teresa succeeded in stopping her, she quickly began again. Her sister decided at last that Nina might manage better, and was going to seek her. But when she reached the door, there was a sharp sudden terrified cry from Sylvia.
“Teresa! Don’t go! Don’t leave me here by myself!”
She had started up. Her sister instantly went back.