She turned toward the salottino, remotely wondering by what chance Estelle was preferring it to the favorite red and green sitting-room upstairs. The salottino had utility when a party was going on, but to sit and embroider or study French surrounded by all those fountains of love....
A sharp bark preceded the tumbling out through the 433salottino door of a little white mop on feet. Upon recognizing Leslie, this performed evolutions expressive of great joy.
She had stopped to pat the excited little swirl of silk when Estelle came forward to see who was there.
With delighted good mornings the women exchanged the foreign salute, which Leslie had adopted and Estelle submitted to, a mere touching of cheeks while the lips kiss the air.
They sat down on the rococo settee to talk, Leslie, quick of eye, wondering what had happened to give Estelle that unusual air, an air of–no, it was indefinable. Excitement had a share in it, and possibly chagrin, and, it almost seemed, exaltation. The chief thing about it, however, was that she was trying to conceal it; doing her best, but it was a poor best, to appear natural. Leslie graciously allowed her to suppose she was succeeding, and entered at once upon the reason for her early call.
“I really think, Estelle, that the villa at Antiniano would suit Aurora. As for you, I am positive, my dear, that you would adore it. It is a little out of the thick of things, but has a very fine view of the sea, also a very pretty garden. Certain conveniences, of course, it hasn’t, but, then, you mustn’t expect those of an Italian villa. I saw Madame Rossi yesterday, and she said she wished you would make an excursion to Antiniano to see for yourselves. She is sure you would be charmed. One request she would make: that the peasant family be allowed to continue in their little corner of the house, where they wouldn’t be the least in your way, and then that the little donkey should be allowed to remain in the stable. But in return you could use him, she said.”
“Yes, or harness him. For the country, why not, my dear? They are ever so strong little beasts.”
Estelle began to laugh, presumably at the picture of Aurora on donkey-back, or, with herself, exhilarating the country-side by the vision of them drawn in a donkey-cart. Leslie joined in her merriment, but expostulatingly, and, warned by a note in Estelle’s laugh, watched her with suspicion while it developed into a nervous cackle. She saw her cover her eyes with one hand, and with the other vainly feel in her pocket. She was crying. Leslie tendered the little handkerchief found on the floor, and knew then that it had dried tears before on that same day. She waited, tactfully silent, merely placing a condoling hand over her friend’s.
“I might as well tell you,” Estelle got out, when her crying fit permitted her to speak, “that Aurora isn’t going to take any villa at Antiniano this summer.... She’s gone away.”