He refilled his petit verre and swallowed its contents at a single gulp. Possibly he gossiped only in order to gain time enough to empty the bottle.
"She's separated from her husband, isn't she?" he continued. "I imagine that her finances must be at a very low ebb, and yet she is always most elegantly dressed. About two months ago I met her in the Via del Babuino. You know your probable successor. But no, you can't know him. It's Monti, the mercante di campagna, a great big fellow, with dirty blond hair. That very day I saw her he was close at her heels in the Via del Babuino. You know one can see at a glance when a man is following a woman. Monti has money, too."
He uttered these last words in a curious tone; an odious tone of envy and cupidity. Then he drank for the third time, noiselessly.
"Are you asleep, George?"
Instead of answering, George pretended to sleep. He had heard everything, but he feared that Exili might see his heart-beats through the bedclothes.
"George!"
He feigned to start like a man suddenly awakened.
"What! You are still here? Aren't you going?"
"I am going now—but look! A tortoise-shell pin!"
He stooped to pick it up from the carpet, examined it with curiosity, and laid it on the coverlid.