“By Jove, we are sitting out everybody else,” he said, with a pleased laugh, triumphant at the thought that he had been able to amuse and interest his companion. “Three o’clock. Very late for a musical evening. You did not know it was so late, did you, Signora?”
“No,” answered Lisa, carelessly; “but I don’t mind. I’ve been enjoying myself.”
“So have I; but it’s rather rough on Mrs. Hawberk, who may want to rest from her labours.”
“I am quite ready to go home as soon as I get my shawl,” said Lisa, rising from the low wicker chair, straight as a dart, her neck and shoulders and long bare arms looking like marble in the glimmer of the toy lamps. Sefton stood and looked at her, drinking her loveliness as if it had been a draught of wine from an enchanted cup. Oh, the charm of those Italian eyes; so brilliant, yet so soft; so darkly deep! Could there be any magic in fairyland more potent than the spell this Calypso was weaving round him?
“May I call your carriage?” he asked.
“I have no carriage. I live close by.”
“Let me see you home, then.”
She shrugged her shoulders with a gesture which meant that the question wasn’t worth disputing, and Sefton followed her across the little bit of grass to the house door. Hawberk stopped her on her way.
“What, my Vivanti not gone yet!” he cried. “I would have had another song out of you if I had known you were there. What have you and Mr. Sefton found to say to each other all this time?”
“We have found plenty to say. He has been talking Italian, which none of you stupid others can talk. It is a treat to hear my own language from some one besides la Zia. Good night, Signor. Shall I find la Signora to wish her good night?”