“Why?”
“Why?” The young marchesa laughed. “He likes to stand on a pedestal, that’s why, my child.” Seeing Sylvia’s puzzled face she dropped the subject. “Let us go on. The last thing was a watch. Now, what next? Ivory brushes?”
“Teresa! Don’t get me anything more.”
“Then we’ll take the other side of the paper for granny. I’m afraid she’s going to be disappointing,” said Teresa gloomily. “I intend to order a carriage by the month, of course, but when I ask her about other things she doesn’t seem to care. She says habits are nicer than anything else when you’re old. She likes to be frugal, because she’s had to be all her life.”
“She loves books about Rome,” hazarded the younger girl.
“Oh, so she does! She shall have them, she shall have them all,” said the marchesa with a fine spread of imagination. “How clever of you! Now the next thing is to find out about them.”
“Mr Wilbraham would know,” said Sylvia, and Teresa, turning upon her with an impatient laugh, was struck suddenly dumb by catching a wistful glance flung towards the spot a little way off where Wilbraham stood patiently pointing out the intricacies of a ruined columned court. It seemed to her as if, in the shock of the surprise, her heart stopped beating. Most women have intuitions which are not unlike another sense, for they are as sure and as inexplicable; and hers swept the past days and took in the result in an instant. She had not thought of Sylvia marrying, because of that intangible want, of which she was conscious herself, while she resented the consciousness in Mrs Brodrick. Yet, after all, what was it? Sylvia was not quite clever—might sometimes be thought a little tiresome. A man might condone all that for a look in her face.
“Shall we go back to the others?” she said hesitatingly.
“Oh, yes!” cried the girl, springing up.
The marchesa, suddenly observant, began to think there was no doubt as to Sylvia’s feelings. But what of his?