‘Mr. Hilliard! Good afternoon.’
There was nothing of surprise in her greeting; evidently she did not find the visit extraordinary. Giuseppe stared, his mouth and eyes at their widest, until the signorina dismissed him; then he turned and walked back—staggered back almost—never before not even late at night on Corpus Domini day, had he had such overwhelming reason to doubt his senses.
Constance turned to the visitor, and swept him with an appreciative glance, her eye lingering a second on the oleander in his buttonhole.
‘Perhaps you can tell me, is Tony out of jail? I am so anxious to know.’
He shook his head.
‘Found guilty and sentenced for life; you’ll never see him again.’
‘Ah; poor Tony! I shall miss him.’
‘I shall miss him too; we’ve had very good times together.’
Constance suddenly became aware that her guest was still standing; she moved along and made place on the wall. ‘Won’t you sit down? Oh, excuse me,’ she added with an anxious glance at his clothes, ‘I’m afraid you’ll get dusty; it would be better to bring a chair.’ She nodded toward the terrace.
He sat down beside her.