“Signor Forza’s departure for Rome,” he hastened to tell her, “does not present any serious difficulty in the way of communicating with him, if it is still your wish to pursue that course.”
“It is my wish; of that you may be assured,” she said, positively, in the full belief that there could be only one decision by Mario Forza. “How can I communicate with him?”
“By making use of the telegraph. A message to Rome, delivered in the railway station at the instant of his arrival, if answered at once, would make it possible for you to have his advice by midnight.”
“Ahem!”
It was Donna Beatrice. She had paused on the threshold, and stood looking from one to the other, puzzled by the serious aspect of the scene.
“Ah, how do you do, Signor Tarsis?” she said, breezily, going forward to take his hand. “I have come from Milan. The finishing touch has been given to the arrangements. All is in readiness. They say there has been a terrible hailstorm. Hera, my dear, I warned you a storm was brewing. I hope you were not caught in it, and you, Signor Tarsis?”
He answered that they both had been overtaken and both had found shelter in the monastery.
“Indeed! How interesting!” Donna Beatrice exclaimed. “A most romantic coincidence, upon my word!”
Neither of the others joined to her tittering the shadow of a smile, but Donna Beatrice was not surprised, for she had guessed that some grave disturbance of the peace had occurred. She shivered at the thought that the great consummation booked for to-morrow might be in jeopardy.
“I beg your pardon, Signor Tarsis,” she chirped, “but I am going to ask Hera to come with me for a little while—just a moment before dinner. You will not mind, I am sure. It is—let us say—the last pre-nuptial secret. After to-day no more secrets.”