“I do not think so. He is not an artist.”
Rosina laid a hand upon her arm. “Is that he?” she said.
They had passed through one of the narrow streets that lead from the Corso towards the river and were come into the Ripetta.
A tall man was walking slowly along on the other side of the road. He did not seem to have noticed the two girls, and yet as he stopped to light a cigarette he was looking towards them. A tram came clanging up, the overhead wires emitting strange noises peculiar to themselves, the gong ringing sharply. Olive glanced up at the red painted triangle fixed to the lamp-post at the corner. “It will stop here. Quick! while it is between us. Perhaps he has not seen—”
They ran to her door and up the stairs together. “It has only just gone on,” cried Rosina. “Have you got your key?”
She stayed on the landing while Olive went into the room and lit her candle. There was no sound in the house at all, no step upon the stair. As she peered down over the banisters into the darkness below she listened intently. The rustling of her skirt sounded loud in the stillness, but there was nothing else.
“He did not see us,” she said. “I shall go now. Lock your door. Felice notte, piccina.”