She was disturbed by the echo of a voice from the cool depths of the house, and turned at approaching footfalls. The room was so high and large that its stiff gilt and brocade furnishing appeared insignificant. Three long windows faced the Lungarno, but two were screened with green slatted blinds and heavily draped, and the light within was silvery and illusive. A small man in correct English clothes, with a pointed bald head and a heavy nose, entered impulsively.
“It's Bembo,” Lavinia announced flatly.
“Of course it's Bembo,” he echoed vivaciously. “Who's more faithful to the Casa Sanviano——”
“At tea time,” Lavinia interrupted.
“Lavinia,” her sister said sharply, “don't be impertinent. There are so many strangers driving,” she continued, to the man; “do stand and tell us who they are. You know every second person in Europe.”
He pressed eagerly forward, and Anna Mantegazza turned and patted his hand.
“I wish you were so attentive to Pier and myself,” she remarked, both light and serious. “I'd like to buy you—you're indispensable in Florence.”
“Contessa!” he protested. “Delighted! At once.”
“Bembo,” Gheta demanded, “duty—who's that in the little carriage with the bells bowed over the horses?”
He leaned out over the grille, his beady alert gaze sweeping the way below.