'More so than usual?'
'I do not know—I think——'
'Well, do you think, or are you sure?' he interrupted severely.
'I am sure—quite sure,' she hastened to say.
He turned his back upon her; she was pale and agitated.
'Would you like to sit down, perhaps?' asked Sangiorgio reverently.
'No, no,' she said; 'let us walk—let us walk.'
They went into a refreshment-room full of people nibbling or nipping at sweetmeats, ices, coffee, or tea, where the floor was strewn with little bags of sweets. Here, too, women abounded. Princess Valmy was sipping tea and arguing with a little man who was a renowned translator of Plato, a Parliamentary athlete, a Southerner of deep intellect, rather strident voice, and incisive, oft cutting, language. The Countess di Roccamorice was eating sugared chestnuts as she chatted with the Grand Master of the Order of St. Maurice, with his white beard and discreet Lombard smile. The Princess di Rocco, the handsomest woman in Rome, was reclining in an easy-chair, with the Honourable Melillo, the Honourable Marchetti, and the Honourable Sangarzia in attendance; she was consuming an ice, benevolent and placid as a goddess. The Baroness Noir, tiny and frail, in a dress of Japanese blue, with gorgeous jewels—large turquoises set in diamonds—was slapping her fingers with her fan, nervously listening to an argument between the Italian Minister at Brussels and the Italian Minister at Bucharest.
'I want nothing—I want nothing,' she murmured to Sangiorgio, who was conducting her towards the well-laden table.