“You will come in and let me make you some tea, won’t you?” pleaded Lisa.
“Not this afternoon, Si’ora. I wanted to see you, to know that all was going well with you. Having done that, I must go back to the West End to—to keep an appointment.”
He was thinking that possibly Eve’s “trying on” would be finished in time for him to snatch half an hour’s tête-à-tête in one of the Bruton Street drawing-rooms, before she dressed for dinner. There were three drawing-rooms, in a diminishing perspective, dwindling almost to a point, the third and inner room too small to serve any purpose but flirtation, and here the lovers could usually find seclusion.
Lisa pouted and looked unhappy.
“You might stay and take tea with me,” she said; “la Zia will be home soon.”
“La Zia is out, then?”
“Yes; she has taken Paolo to Battersea Park for the afternoon. The rehearsal for the new opera keeps me all day long, and la Zia takes the boy for his daily walk; but it is past five, and they will be home as soon as I am, I dare say.”
“I will come this way again in a week or so, Si’ora.”
“You are very unkind,” protested Lisa, in her impulsive way; and then, with one of those sudden changes which so well became her childish beauty, she exclaimed, “No, no; forgive me; you are always kind—kind, kindest of men. Promise you will come again soon.”
“I promise,” he said, stopping short and offering his hand.