As they crossed the road and drove down the quiet square, Grace, staring out of the window, could almost imagine that she saw the ghost-like figure of Paula Rawson gliding along in the shadow—gliding to her doom—and shivered involuntarily.
“You are cold!” exclaimed Maddelena solicitously.
“No. I was only—remembering,” she answered, and Maddelena pressed her arm with an impulsive gesture of sympathy.
“You can wait,” she told the chauffeur. “Go down and tell Mr. Withers you are to sit by his fire till I call you. Take my arm, Mrs. Carling. We will go slowly up these many stairs. They are trying to a stranger.”
Grace, indeed, was breathless when they reached the top, and Maddelena led her straight into the big drawing-room, where the cosy gas fire was aglow as usual—the Cacciolas loved warmth—switched on the lights, and pushed her guest into the easiest chair.
“Now you must have a glass of my uncle’s famous wine and a biscuit. Yes, yes, I insist, it is here—everybody has to do as I say; Mr. Starr calls me ‘she who must be obeyed.’ Has he told you that? He is very funny sometimes, that Mr. Starr, but he is right there. So, drink it up while I go and prepare Giulia.”
She found the old woman sitting in her old armchair in the spotless kitchen—placidly enjoying her Christmas evening playing “patience,” in company with a flask of Chianti and a dish of salted almonds—bestowed a hearty kiss upon her, and explained why she had returned so early.
“But who is it?” protested Giulia. “I do not know that I shall be able to see for her.”
“Thou wilt try, dear good Giulia,” coaxed Maddelena. “It will be kind indeed, for she is in deep distress over the fate of one whom she loves most dearly. Yes, she is a stranger. I will not even tell thee her name; it is not necessary: at least thou hast often said so. Let the light come if it will.”
“Well, well, thou wilt have thy way as usual, carissima,” said Giulia resignedly, pushing aside her cards. “But she must come to me here.”