“It is quite impossible. Miss Trelango is ill and cannot come to the telephone herself.”
“Oh, Maria, but I can—please—” Carlota called breathlessly from the inner bedroom, but the voice went on inexorably and with chill finality.
“I regret I cannot listen any further. It is impossible for her to see you.”
Carlota sat up in bed, slim and tragic, her wealth of dark hair tumbling about her shoulders.
“Was that Mr. Ames? You begged me to come and talk to Jacobelli not five minutes ago, and now you say that I am too ill to get up.”
“Cara mia, you are not to excite yourself with anger,” Maria soothed her. “Lie very still, my preciosa, relax your nerves. Remember agitation is very bad for your voice.”
“But you will not understand, Maria,” she protested. “This is the man I love, the man I shall surely marry, and you will not even let me speak to him when I know how troubled he is. I must see him, Maria. If you really loved me, you would not keep us apart.”
“Would I not?” Maria repeated fervently. “How did he know this number?”
“I do not know,” Carlota asserted proudly. “I did not even tell him my name, nothing at all.”
“So? Then it is maybe—the Marchese. He is soft-hearted. He regards this as a romance when it is a calamity. Do you realize what it means, Jacobelli saying Ward insists everything is to be canceled if you persist in jeopardizing your career?”