“Orsi has been only truthful enough to suit his own purpose,” Mochales stated, “Signora, please——” He indicated the descent from the belvedere.
She moved closer to him, smiling appealingly.
“What is it all about?” she queried.
“Forgive me; it is impossible to answer.”
“Cesare?” She addressed her husband.
“Why, this—this donkey hints that there was something improper in my present. It seems that I have been annoying Gheta by my attentions, flattering her with pearls.”
“Did Gheta tell you that?” Lavinia demanded. A growing resentment took possession of her. “Because if she did, she lied!”
“Ah!” Mochales whispered sharply.
“They're both mad,” Orsi told her, “and should be dipped in the bay.”
Never had Abrego y Mochales appeared handsomer; never more like fine bronze. That latter fact struck her forcibly. His face was no more mutable than a mask of metal. Its stark rigidity sent a cold tremor to her heart.