“You may rely on me,” he answered.
She went down the steps of Trinità del Monte, and across the Piazza di Spagna to the English book-shop at the corner, where she bought a Roman Herald. Three minutes study of the visitors’ list sufficed to inform her that the Prince was staying at the Hotel de Russie close by. The afternoon was waning, and already the narrow streets of the lower town were in shadow; soon the shops would be lit up and gay with the gleam of marbles, the glimmer of Roman pearls and silks, and the green, grotesque bronzes that strangers buy.
Olive walked down the Via Babuino past the ugly English church, crossed the road, and entered the hall of the hotel in the wake of a party of Americans. They went on towards the lift and left her uncertain which way to turn, so she appealed to the gold-laced, gigantic, and rather awful porter.
“Prince Tor di Rocca?”
He softened at her mention of the illustrious name.
“If you will go into the lounge there I will send to see if the Prince is in. What name shall I say?”
“Miss Agar. I have no card with me.”
She chose a window-seat near a writing-table at the far end of the room, and there Filippo found her when he came in five minutes later. He was prepared for anything but the smile in the blue eyes lifted to his, and he paled as he took the hand she gave and raised it to his lips.
“Ah,” he said fervently, “if you were always kind.”
“You would be good?”