'No need to wish you good luck, colleague,' whispered Sangarzia, taking leave of him.
'Come with me,' the woman repeated, bearing on his arm to draw him away.
It was half-past two. People were hastening to the cloakrooms to go home, getting into their overcoats listlessly, wrapping up their heads in scarfs, like so many acrobats, who after performing in the street put on old, worn wraps over their tawdry, spangled finery.
'Come, come!' urged the woman, seized with impatience, while Sangiorgio was donning his great-coat.
Outside she at once singled out her carriage, and got in eagerly, dragging Sangiorgio in after her.
'Home!' she said to the coachman.
But once in the carriage, behind the drawn blinds, she quickly unwound the veil from her head and threw it on the opposite seat. She disencumbered herself of the Oriental garb, jerking out the pins and tearing at the embroidery. A cloak with a hood lay at the bottom of the carriage; this she put on. Sangiorgio silently assisted her. She looked out into the street for a moment.
'Ah, there is the moon!' she murmured with great tenderness.
And she tapped on the pane to tell the coachman something. Immediately the carriage stopped, in the Piazza Barberini. She got out quickly, and pulled the hood on her cloak over her head.
'Drive home!' she ordered the coachman. 'Tell Carolina she may go to bed. I have the key.'