But the girl looked round her doubtfully. She did not like foolishness when she heard of it, and her sister’s imagination was apt to make her uncomfortable. Slow doubt crept into her voice.
“If you like—if you’re sure it’s safe.” She added more quickly, “It’s so very lonely there, isn’t it?”
Teresa instantly yielded.
“Let us sit where we are then. Nothing can be more charming,” she went on, dropping on the short turf and clasping her knees, while Sylvia took elaborate precautions against the damp she dreaded. “Oh, Sylvia!” sighed Teresa, “to think that I should really be sitting here and talking to you, after that life!”
“At Florence, do you mean? I suppose the old marchesa was very unkind, for you to have disliked it so much?”
The other did not answer at once.
“Unkind? Well, no, she did not mean to be unkind. Do you know, I believe you would have got on very well with her. I’m sometimes so dreadfully difficult! But we won’t talk about Florence. We are here, here, at Ostia, you, and granny, and I!”
“And Mr Wilbraham,” put in Sylvia conscientiously.
“Yes, Mr Wilbraham. You mustn’t remind me of him when he is off our hands.” And Teresa shot a small grimace in his direction. “Let us talk of something nice. What shall we do with all our money? I shall get a dog. What will you have?”
“Do you really mean I can choose something?”