“Yes, do,” Edna said perfunctorily. She was trying to hear what her cousin was saying to Filippo, and wishing she could amuse him as well. They passed through the wide hall of the hotel and went up in the lift. The Marvels’ private sitting-room was on the second floor. They were much too rich to condescend to the palms and bamboo tables and wicker chairs of the common herd, and tea was served to Edna and her guests in a green and white boudoir that was, as the Marchesa might have said, more or less Louis Seize.
Mr Marvel came in presently, refusing tea, but asking leave to smoke, and the Prince, gracefully deferential to his future father-in-law, listened to the little he had to say, answering carefully in his perfect English.
“Yes, sir. There is a great deal of poverty here. On my Tuscan estates too. Alas! yes.”
Mamie sat near him, and in the flickering red light of the fire she looked almost pretty. Filippo’s eyes strayed towards her now and then. Edna came presently to where Olive rested apart on the wide cushioned window-seat. “Will you have some more tea?”
“No, thank you. I think we must be going soon. The Marchesa will not like it if we stay out too long.”
Edna hesitated. “I wanted to ask you a silly question. Had you ever seen the Prince before last week?”
There was the slightest perceptible pause before Olive answered, “No, never. Why do you ask?”
“I thought you looked as if you had somehow that night at the Lorenzoni palace. When we came in you were at the piano, and I thought you looked queer—as if—”
“Oh, no,” Olive said again, but she wondered afterwards if she had done right.
On their way home Mamie drew her attention to a poster, and she saw the name of Meryon in great orange letters on a white ground.