“In Italy, years ago, before she began to be famous.”
They were out of the lock by this time, and in the broad sunshine. Eve could see that her husband’s pallor was not an illusive effect of the green gloom in that deep well they had just left.
He was white to the lips.
Sefton! Sefton and Fiordelisa hand in glove with each other! That was a perilous alliance. And Lisa’s manner, claiming him so impulsively, darting that evil look at his wife! He saw himself hemmed round with dangers, saw the menace of his domestic peace from two most formidable influences: on the one hand Lisa’s slighted love; on the other Sefton’s hatred of a successful rival. The fear of untoward complications, coming suddenly upon the happy security of his wedded life, was so absorbing that he was unconscious of Eve’s pallor and of her suppressed agitation while questioning him.
“You knew her in Italy,” said Eve, her head bent a little, one listless hand dabbling in the sunlit water that reflected the vivid colouring of the boat in gleams of lapis and malachite. “In what part of Italy? Tell me all about her. I am dying of curiosity. There was such odious familiarity in her manner.”
“Again I must refer you to any organ-grinder as an example of southern exuberance.”
“Yes, yes, that is all very fine, but Signora Vivanti must belong to a higher grade than the organ-grinder. She is not to be judged by his standard.”
“There you are wrong. She is of peasant birth.”
“Indeed. She certainly looks common; beautiful, but essentially common. Well, Jack, where and when did you meet her?”
“Years ago, as I told you. Where?” hesitatingly, as if trying to fix a vague memory, while lurid before his mental vision there rose the scene at Florian’s, the lights, the crowd, the Babel of music from brass and strings, mandoline and flute, every stone of the city resonant with varied melodies. “Where?” he repeated, seeing her looking at him impatiently. “Why, I think it was in Verona.”