“It is useless to remind him of that.”
“Oh dear, yes.”
Two gentlemen have withdrawn from the flow of people to an embrasure of a window. One is Carlo Savelli, of the great house of Savelli, tall, strong and nervous, looking as if he had dismounted from one of the well-limbed horses of the Campagna, and had changed his large round cow-boy cloak for the evening dress of society. The other is Guglielmo Morici, pale and delicate, of the best Roman bourgeoisie, but allied by business and relationship to the nobility. In the conversation of each the Roman accent is very marked.
“When is the meeting fixed for?”
“For Saturday evening, Guglielmo. You are going to take part if you can get off?”
“Yes, I can get off for two or three days, for the Monday or even till Tuesday morning.”
“Good; we must pray Heaven that it doesn’t rain!”
“I don’t mind a little rain when one is out shooting, a little, but not too much.”
“You are right. We train to Velletri, thence we drive for three hours to Campiglione.”
“Do we get there at midnight?”