“No,” she refused drily.
“And why? Aren’t you bored there? Don’t you see that every one is walking?”
“Yes: sweethearts with their lovers; girls with their flirts; wantons with their courtiers. We belong to none of these classes.”
“Hélas!” he exclaimed in French, to hide his bitterness, and took out his eye-glass and looked at her.
“Won’t you come then? The avenues are most beautiful, and it is a lovely sunset.”
She laughed again, with a mocking, malicious laugh.
He looked at her.
“I will return later on,” he said, softly withdrawing.
When he had gone she lent her head against the arm of her rustic chair, and shut her eyes as if mortally tired.
“What is the matter?” asked Flaminia.