“On the instant, for behold all is ready. Tell him he is to eat every morsel, on pain of my royal displeasure! How is he?”
“Very weak still, though he says he slept well,” said Cacciola, taking up the tray. “And he insists on coming with us to-day.”
Maddelena’s expressive face darkened.
“To the court? But what folly; there is no need, and he will make himself ill again,” she cried.
“I think not. Let him have his way, carissima, and he will get over it the sooner,” said Cacciola pacifically, and retreated with the tray down the long passage that led to Melikoff’s room.
The flat was a large one—two thrown into one in fact—for the maestro liked plenty of room. That was why he had settled in a suburb.
Maddelena stood frowning for a minute or more, then shrugged her shoulders again, administered a petulant shake to the sobbing Giulia, poured out a big cup of coffee, and handed it to the old woman, sternly bidding her drink it and cease her fuss, and finally sat down to her own breakfast, breaking her roll and dabbing on butter with angry, jerky movements, and scolding Giulia between mouthfuls.
But she showed no sign of ill-humour an hour later when she greeted Boris. Her manner now was of charming, protective, almost maternal, solicitude.
She looked very beautiful too, not in the mourning garb she had worn at the funeral, but in a handsome furred coat of tawny cloth, almost the colour of her eyes, and a bewitching little hat to match.
Even Boris, worn, haggard, brooding resentfully on his tragic sorrow, summoned up a smile for her, as Cacciola, watching the pair of them, noticed with secret satisfaction.