“You pudding!” he said in a low even voice. “Do you talk to me—Abrego y Mochales?”
A dark tide of passion, visible even in the night, flooded Orsi's countenance.
“Leave!” he insisted, “Or I'll have you flung into the bay.”
A deep silence followed, in which Lavinia could hear the stir of the water against the walls below. A sharp fear entered her heart, a new dread of the Spaniard. He was completely outside the circle of impulses which she understood and to which she reacted. He was not a part of her world; he coldly menaced the foundations of all right and security. Her worship of romance died miserably. In a way, she thought, she was responsible for the present horrible situation; it was the result of the feeling she had had for Mochales. Lavinia was certain that if Gheta had not known of it the Spaniard would have been quickly dropped by the elder. She was suddenly conscious of the perfume he always bore; that, curiously, lent him a strange additional oppression.
“Mochales,” he said in a species of strained wonderment, “threatened ... thrown into the bay! Mochales—the Flower of Spain! And by a helpless mound of fat, a tub of entrails——”
“Cesare!” Lavinia cried in an energy of desperation. “Come! Don't listen to him.”
Orsi released her grasp.
“I believe you are at the Grand Hotel?” he addressed the other man.
“Until I hear from you.”
“To-morrow——”