The proposal was a test of his own nerves, but he had schooled himself for a good many years to hide his feelings; it was an ordeal he was used to.
With final exclamations on the beauty of the night, the whist party returned to the salon. Sybert brought a wicker chair from the loggia for Marcia, and seated himself on the parapet while he lighted a cigar with a nonchalance she could not help but admire. Did she but know it, his nonchalance was only surface deep, though the cause for his inward tumult had nothing to do with the man of the ruined grotto. They sat in silence for a time, looking down on the shimmering Campagna. The scene was as beautiful as on that other night of the early spring, but now it was full summer. It was so peaceful, so idyllic, so thoroughly the Italy of poetry and romance, that it seemed absurd to think of plots and riots in connexion with that landscape. At least Marcia was not thinking of them now; she was willing to take her uncle at his word and leave the responsibility to him. The thing that was still burning in her mind was that unexplained moment by the fountain. It was the first time she had been alone with Sybert since. How would he act? Would he simply ignore it, as if it had never happened? He would, of course; and that would be far worse than if he apologized or congratulated her, for then she would have a chance to explain. What did he think? she asked herself for the hundredth time as she covertly scanned his dark, impassive face. Did he think her engaged to Paul Dessart, or did he divine the real reason why the young man had so suddenly sailed for America? Even so, it would not put her in a much better light in his eyes. He would think she had been playing with Paul and—her face flushed at the thought—had tried to play with him.
Sybert was the one who broke the silence. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that I could spot your man with the crucifix this very moment.’ He pointed with his cigar toward the hill above them, where little stone-walled Castel Vivalanti was outlined against the sky. ‘If I am not mistaken, he is in the back room of a trattoria up there, in company with our friend Tarquinio of the Bed-quilt, who,’ he added meditatively, ‘is a fool. Those carabinieri are not guarding the roads for nothing. A number of Neapolitans have come north lately who might better have stayed at home—Camorrists for the most part—and the government is after them. This fellow with the crucifix is without doubt one of them, and in all probability he just happened into the ruins this afternoon to rest, without having an idea who lived here. At any rate, I strongly suspect that your uncle it not the hare he’s hunting. Italy is too busy just at present to take time for private revenge—though,’ he smiled, ‘I have no wish to spoil your adventure.’
Marcia breathed a little sigh by way of answer, and another silence fell between them.
‘On such a night as this,’ he said dreamily, ‘did you and I, Miss Marcia, once take a drive together.’
‘I don’t know that we did,’ he laughed. ‘At least I don’t recall the conversation.’
From the valley below them there came the sound of a man’s voice singing a familiar serenade. Only the tune was audible, but the words they knew:
‘Open your casement, love.
I come as a robber to steal your heart.’