He came up the steps and leant against the trellis, looking down at her. She could not see his face, but a woman does not always need to do that.
“What is it—Tomaso?” she asked gravely.
“That poor man,” he explained simply—for the Spaniards hold human life but cheaply—“was found dead in his carriage when they reached Palma. The doctors say it was the shock—and he so fat. At all events he is dead.”
Rosa crossed herself mechanically, and devoutly thought first of all of the merchant's future state.
“His last action was a good one,” she said. “There is that to remember.”
“Yes,” said Tomaso, in a queer voice. And at the sound Rosa looked up at him sharply; but she could see nothing, for his face was in the shadow.
“And as for you,” she said tentatively, “you will get your fortune all the sooner.”
“I shall never get it at all,” answered Tomaso, with a curt laugh. “I went down to Palma this morning with my head full of plans—in the sunshine. I came back with an empty brain—in the dark.”
He stood motionless, looking down at her. They are slow of tongue in Majorca, and Rosa reflected for quite a minute before she spoke—which is saying a good deal for a woman.
“Tell me,” she said at length, gently, “why is it that you will not get your fortune?”