‘And the villa in the hills?’ she asked. ‘How did it go? And the ghost of the Wicked Prince? Did Monsieur Benoit paint him?’
‘The ghost was a grievous disappointment. He turned out to be the butler.’
‘Ah—poor Monsieur Benoit! He has many disappointments. C’est triste, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Many disappointments?’ queried Marcia, quite in the dark.
‘The Miss Roystons, Mr. Dessart’s relatives,’ pursued the lady; ‘they are friends of yours. I met them at the Melvilles’ a few weeks ago. They are charming, are they not?’
‘Very,’ said Marcia, wondering slightly at the turn the conversation had taken.
‘And this poor Monsieur Benoit—he has gone, all alone, to paint moonlight in Venice. Ce que c’est que l’amour!’
‘Ah!’ breathed Marcia. She was beginning to have an inkling. Had he been added to the collection? It was too bad of Eleanor!
‘Miss Royston is charming, like all Americans,’ reiterated the lady. ‘But, I fear, a little cruel. Mais n’importe. He is young, and when one is young one’s heart is made of india-rubber, is it not so?’ Her eyes rested on Marcia for a moment.
Marcia’s glance had wandered toward the door. Laurence Sybert had just come in and joined the group about her uncle, and she noted the fact with a quick thrill of excitement. Would he come and speak to her? What would he say? How would he act? She felt a strong desire to study his face, but she was aware that the eyes of ‘the greatest gossip in Rome’ were upon her, and she rallied herself to answer. Monsieur Benoit was commiserated for the third time.