“It struck me that the person who wrote it was in a temper and might afterwards be sorry for having hurt my feelings, and so”—she raised her eyes momentarily to his—“the invitation is still open.”
“Tell me,” there was both entreaty and command in his tone, “did you know the truth before you wrote that letter?”
“You mean, did I know whom I was inviting? Assuredly! Do you think it would have been dignified to write such an informal invitation to a person I did not know?”
She turned away quickly and laid her hand on her father’s shoulder.
“Come, Dad, don’t you think we ought to be going? Poor Tony wants to read the paper himself.”
Mr. Wilder came back to the jail and his companions with a start.
“Oh, eh, yes, I think perhaps we ought. If they don’t let you out this afternoon, Tony, I’ll make matters lively for ’em, and if there’s anything you need send word by Gustavo—I’ll be back later.” He fished in his pockets and brought up a handful of cigars. “Here’s something better than lemon jelly, and they’re not from the tobacco shop in Valedolmo either.”
He dropped them on the table and turned toward the door; Constance followed with a backward glance.
“Good-bye, Tony; don’t despair. Remember that it’s always darkest before the dawn, and that whatever others think, Costantina and I believe in you. We know that you are incapable of telling anything but the truth!” She had almost reached the door when she became aware of the flowers in her hand; she hurried back. “Oh, I forgot! Costantina sent these with her—with—” She faltered; her audacity did not go quite that far.
Tony reached for them. “With what?” he insisted.