‘Ah, well,’ finished the lady, philosophically, ‘perhaps it is for the best. A young man avec le cœur brisé is far more interesting than one who is heart-whole. There is that Laurence Sybert over there.’ She nodded toward the group on the other side of the room. ‘For the last ten years, when the forestieri in Rome haven’t had anything else to talk about, they’ve talked about him. And all because they think that under that manner of his he’s carrying around a broken heart for the pretty little Contessa Torrenieri.’
Marcia laughed lightly. ‘Mr. Sybert at least carries his broken heart easily. One would never suspect its presence.’
The lady’s eyes rested upon her an appreciable instant before she answered: ‘Che vuole? People must have something to talk about, and a good many girls—yes, and with dots—have sighed in vain for a smile from his dark eyes. Between you and me, I don’t believe the man’s got any heart—either broken or whole. But I mustn’t be slandering him,’ she laughed. ‘I remember he’s a friend at Casa Copley.’
‘Mr. Sybert is my uncle’s friend; the rest of us see very little of him,’ Marcia returned as she endeavoured to think of a new theme. Her companion, however, saved her the trouble.
‘And were you not surprised at Mr. Dessart’s desertion?’
‘Mr. Dessart’s desertion?’ Marcia repeated the question with a slight quiver of the eyelids.
‘Exchanging Rome for Pittsburg. You Americans do things so suddenly! One loses one’s breath.’
‘But his father was ill and they sent for him.’
‘Yes; but the surprising part is that he goes for good. The pictures and carvings and curios are packed; there is a card in the window saying the studio is for rent—he is giving up art to mine coal instead.’
Marcia laughed. ‘It is a seven-league step from art to coal,’ she acknowledged. ‘I had thought myself that he was an artist to the end.’