She was silent. Then she raised her head resolutely.
“Since I should have accompanied you, may I consider myself free?” she asked, with some impatience.
“You have other plans?” he murmured, looking at her again fixedly.
“I have had no others from the moment that it was arranged that we should go out together,” she replied quickly.
“I beg your pardon for having made you dress; you have lost a toilette.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, and she began to trace the arabesque designs of the carpet with her parasol.
“Emilio?” she said suddenly.
“Maria!”
“Why don’t you go alone to Cecilia Metella? Go and put on your pink; the victoria is ready, and will take you to where Francesco is waiting with the horses. Go now.”
Her tone was quiet, indifferent, and persuasive.