He nodded.
“Unfortunately, yes. I should like to stay, but—” he shrugged—“life isn’t all play, Miss Wilder. Though one would like to be a donkey-man forever, one only may be for a summer’s holiday. I am your debtor for a unique and pleasant experience.”
She studied his face without speaking. Did it mean that he had got the letter and was hurt, or did it perhaps mean that he had got the letter and did not care to appear as Jerry Junior? That he enjoyed the play so long as he could remain incognito and stop it where he pleased, but that he had no mind to let it drift into reality? Very possibly it meant—she flushed at the thought—that he divined Nannie’s plot, and refused also to consider the fourth candidate.
She laughed and dropped into their usual jargon.
“And the young American man, Signor Abraham Lincoln, will he come tomorrow for tea?”
“Ah, signorina, he is desolated, but it is not possible. He has received a letter and he must go; he has stopped too long in Valedolmo. Tomorrow morning early, he and I togever, we sail away to Austria.” His eyes went back to the trail of smoke left by the little steamer.
“And Costantina, Tony. You are leaving her behind?” It took some courage to put this question, but she did not flinch; she put it with a laugh which contained nothing but raillery.
Tony sighed—a deep melodramatic sigh—and laid his hand on his heart.
“Ah, signorina, zat Costantina, she has not any heart. She love one man one day, anozzer ze next. I go away to forget.”
His eyes dropped to hers; for an instant the mocking light died out; a questioning, wounded look took its place.