A woman—with the fierce lurid look of a tigress in her dark eyes, and in her action as lithe and elastic, she paced up and down her bedroom hour after hour. Now she threw herself upon a couch in utter exhaustion, but anon she sprang up again to resume the hurried walk to and fro.
At times she went to the door to open it and listen, for it was secured only by the locks and bolts of the Grundy Patent—Dellatoria, in spite of his newly awakened jealous rage, feeling that his wife would join with him in keeping the servants in ignorance of their terrible rupture.
But all was still downstairs; and at last, enforcing an outward appearance of composure, Valentina changed her dress, bathed her burning eyes with spirit-scented water, and descended to her boudoir, where she turned down the lamp beneath its rose-coloured shade, and rang the bell, before seating herself in a lounge with her back half turned from the door.
“Pretty well time,” said the butler, who had been heading the discussion below stairs regarding the meaning of what had taken place. “There, cook, you may dish up.”
The footman presented himself at the door.
“Your ladyship rang?”
“Yes. Where is your master?”
“In the lib’ry, my lady.”
“Alone?”
“No, my lady. Colonel Varesti and Baron Gratz are with him again.”