"All London offers replenishment of our empty coffers," he answered light-heartedly. "Who is to have the honour?" He turned to Myra. "Shall I peel a peach for you?" he asked.
The woman seemed not to hear the question. She was looking at Hora, with an appeal in her glance.
Hora answered her glance. "Myra is tired of London," he remarked. "What do you say, Guy? Shall we finish the campaign now, strike our tents and retire like contented bourgeoisie to our vineyard to watch the grapes ripen?"
Guy's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Retire empty-handed?" he asked incredulously. "Why, what has come upon you, Commandatore?"
"Myra is tired," he answered briefly.
Guy looked, smilingly, at her. She flushed slightly. "Not a bit of it," he answered. "I am quite sure she does not desire to exchange the delights of a London season, even for the dolce far niente of an Italian summer."
"I should not mind," she answered. "London is a beastly place. The Commandatore is right. I am sick of the sight and sound of people, and of the perpetual menace of our life—I——"
Hora checked her speech with a gesture. The door opened and a servant entered with coffee, and while he was present the conversation passed lightly over topics of the day.
"I don't like that man," said Guy, as the servant withdrew. "I caught him prying about amongst my belongings the other day when I returned to the flat unexpectedly."
"All servants do that," murmured Hora indifferently. "Curiosity is the mental badge of servitude. The servant is never happy until he has surprised one of his master's secrets. It would be just as well, Guy, if you were to supply him with a few facts to exercise his imagination upon. Get some girl to write you a few love letters and hide them where he can find them. He will never be at a loss then to supply a reason for any erratic movement of yours."