“Oh, uncle, did you but know what is flying about, and how it may be represented in England! You despise me as a woman. Consult Greville, I entreat you, before it goes farther. You know his calm good sense. Write by the mail that leaves to-day. He will tell you—”
“Damn Greville!” cries Sir William, now exasperated in the highest degree. “And damn all who interfere in matters which do not concern them and never will! I free you, madam, henceforward from the unpleasant duty of assisting my hospitalities, and have nothing further to beg of you but that our meetings may be as infrequent as you please.”
He stalked out and left Mrs. Dickenson weeping on the settee. The poor lady had but done her duty, and here was the reward.
He went straight up to Emma’s apartments, where she sat, industriously sketching by the great window overlooking the bay. He stood a moment by the door and watched her, and though she was conscious of it she never stirred but went quietly on with her work.
All in her favorite white, young, lovely, sweet, she looked like a wood nymph compared with Mrs. Dickenson’s stout and unattractive British maternity. She rose before him florid and suspicious, the stiff silk gown crackling about her stout person, a cap all loops and frills and ribbon, with rolled curls to front her unattractive coiffure. A thievish sunbeam had made its way through a half-closed jalousie and was playing hide and seek in the auburn gold of Emma’s curls. It touched the mother-of-pearl of a little ear, listening, though he never guessed it, for the quick breath due to such industrious loveliness. It rushed on him then—Why not make Emma the lady of the Palazzo, the dispenser of his hospitalities? Why not as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb? They could not say worse than they were saying; then let them talk as they would and he would go his own way. Where in the broad earth could he find such another hostess? The charm of his parties would echo through Italy, and London was far away. These thoughts and many more all crystallizing into resolution stirred in him as he stood and watched that sunbeam touch the warm rose of her cheek and quiver about her lips. Suddenly she turned, smiled, and said sweetly:
“I felt you were there. It’s like sunshine in the room when you come. Tell me if this is any better?”
She held up the sketching block, and he sat down beside her commenting and commending. Then, resolutely:
“Emma, I have a dinner party to-night. I wish you to appear.”
“Me? Oh, Sir William!” she looked at him in dismay. “Ladies? But I’ve never dined with ladies in my life, and I don’t know how to act.”
“You can’t do anything but gracefully. There are only two Italian ladies, from Rome. The rest are men. Twelve in all. I wish you to receive them.”