Olive laughed a little in spite of herself, but she was very tired and they had hurt her. The marks of Cesare’s fingers showed red still on her wrist, and the lace of the short sleeve was torn.
Mario clattered out of the room presently, and came back with a glass of water for her. “I am really sorry,” he whispered as he gave it. “Do stop crying.”
After all they had not meant any harm. She was a little comforted, and the expressed contrition helped her.
“I shall be better soon,” she said gently.
When she got home to the apartment in Via Arco della Ciambella there were lies to be told about the lessons, the pupils, the hours. The fine edge of her exaltation was already blunted, and she sighed at the thought of her morning dreams; sighed and was glad; the first steps had not cost much after all, and she had earned five lire and fifteen soldi.
The lamp was lit in the little sitting-room, and Ser Giulia was there, cutting out a skirt on the table very carefully, in a tense silence that was broken only by the click of the scissors and the rustle of silk.
“I have lost confidence in myself,” she said as she fastened the shining lengths together with pins. “This is the right side of the material, isn’t it, my dear? I can’t see.”
“Yes, this is right. Let me stitch the seams for you. Where is Signora Aurelia?”
“She has gone to bed. Her head ached. She—she does not complain, but I think she needs more sun and air than she can get here.”
Olive looked at her quickly. “You ought to go away and rest, both of you.”