"I don't expect Guy for another hour at least," said the man carelessly, though he watched the woman keenly as he spoke. "After that—well, if we don't see him in an hour, we shall probably not see him for five years, at least."
The woman winced as from a blow.
"Five, or seven? It won't matter much, will it?" she replied quietly. Then in a moment her self-control dropped from her. Her lethargy vanished. A light came into her eyes, her nostrils became vibrant. Without alteration of pitch her voice became passionate. "It is horrible—brutal of you—to send him on such a business. What can possess you to do such a thing—can you not spare even——"
"Hush!" The man's voice interrupted her. He spoke with silken suavity. "How often have I told you that the reiteration of facts known to both parties to a conversation is the hall-mark of the unintelligent!" "By Jove, Myra," he continued, changing the subject, "how really beautiful you are! What a lucky dog Guy is to rouse such an interest!"
The woman dropped her eyes and the man continued meditatively, "What a vast alteration has taken place in the ideal of feminine beauty since the fifteenth century! Do you know, Myra, while you have been sitting so patiently at the window I have been measuring you by the canons of beauty laid down by that sleek old churchman, Master Agnolo Firenzuola"—he tapped the black letter volume which lay beside him—"and though he, I'm afraid, would have many faults to find with your features——"
The levity of his tone roused her again to passionate utterance.
"No more," she cried. "Have you no heart left in you, Commandatore, that you can send your own son to such danger and sit there calmly reading while——" She broke off abruptly, her voice choked with a sob.
Lynton Hora rose from his seat and viewed the woman, who shrank from his steady gaze.
"Have matters gone so far as that?" he asked, and his lips smiled cynically.
She made no reply.