‘You’re too discerning by far,’ Sybert retorted, his hands fast in his pockets.
Marcia, with a laugh and a quick flush, held out both of hers. ‘It’s a secret,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how you guessed it, but you must promise on your honour as a gentleman and a diplomat not to tell a single soul!’
‘I must tell my wife,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s a case of “I told you so,” and she usually comes out ahead in such cases. You can’t ask me to hide what little light I have under a bushel.’
‘I don’t care so much about Mrs. Melville,’ Marcia gave a reluctant consent. ‘But promise me one thing: that you’ll never, never breathe a word to—I don’t know her name—the Lady who Writes.’
‘The Lady who Writes? Who on earth is she talking about, Sybert?’
‘The greatest gossip in Rome,’ appended Marcia.
‘Madame Laventi!’ Melville laughed. ‘You’re too late, Miss Marcia. She knows it already. Madame Laventi does not get her news by word of mouth; the birds carry it to her. Good night,’ he added, and he strolled discreetly into the salon. But his caution was unnecessary; their parting was blatantly innocent.
Sybert chose a tall brass candlestick from the row on the mantelpiece and handed it to her with a bow.
‘Thank you,’ said Marcia.
She paused on the landing and smiled down.