Once more there was a silence. A rather long silence this time. It was broken by the Duchessa’s voice.
“Some months ago,” she said, “I offered my friendship to Antony Gray; I now offer that same friendship to Michael Field.”
Antony gave a little laugh. There was an odd gleam in his eyes.
“Michael Field regrets that he must decline the honour.”
The Duchessa’s face went dead white.
Antony got to his feet.
“Please don’t misunderstand me,” he said. “I fully appreciate the honour you have done me, but—” he shrugged his shoulders—“it is quite impossible to accept it. It—you must see that for yourself—would be a rather ridiculous situation. The Duchessa di Donatello and a friendship with an under-gardener! I don’t fancy either of us would care to be made a mock of, even by the extremely small world in which we happen to live.” He stopped.
The Duchessa rose too. Her eyes were steely.
“Thank you for reminding me,” she said. “In a moment of absurd impulsiveness I had overlooked that fact. Also, thank you for—for your hospitality.”
She moved to the door without looking at him. Antony was before her, and had it open. He followed her down the path and unfastened the wicket gate. She passed through it without turning her head, and walked rather deliberately down the lane.