“ ...t’aime,” he replied childishly, and rather perfunctorily. Having, as it were, accomplished a small preliminary duty of conversation they were silent.
She looked at him, and noticed that he was in evening dress, and in his buttonhole were some carnations which she had given him in the morning. Marco Fiore’s slightly delicate appearance was aided by these garments of society. His person gained freedom from a certain thinness more apparent than real. His face was a little too pallid, with deep-black hair and moustaches; the lips were fresh and strong. The eyes, which were extremely soft, with a fascinating softness, had every now and then something feminine in them. But there was nothing feminine in the gleams of passion which kept crossing them in waves, nor was there anything feminine in the generality of the lines, where firmness and even obstinacy were prominent. Two or three times, to break the silence, he kissed her slender fingers.
“Are you going out, Marco?” she asked in that decided voice of hers, which required a precise and direct reply.
“Yes, for a moment or two.... I am obliged to,” Marco insinuated.
“Where?”
“To the English Embassy, Maria.”
“Is there a reception?”
“Yes, the last of the season,” he explained, as if to clear up his obligation for going.
Again there was a silence. Maria sat with her two jewelled hands clasped over her knees among the silken folds of opaque silver, as if in a dream.
“Once upon a time I was a great friend of Lady Clairville.”