“Ah, the padrona is hard—and you are pretty. I thought it might be that, perhaps. Don Filippo is like his old wolf of a father, and young lambs should beware of him.”
“Can you tell me of some quiet, decent rooms where I can go to night?”
“Sicuro! My husband’s brother keeps the Aquila Verde, and you can go there. Giovanni will give you his best room if he hears that you come from us, and he will not charge too much. I am sorry you are going, cara.”
Olive squeezed her hand. “Thank you, Gigia. You are the only one I am sorry to say good-bye to. I shall not forget you.”
The Marchese was coming down the stairs as Olive went up again. He smiled at her as he stood aside to let her pass. “You are late, are you not? I shall not tell tales but I hope for your sake that my wife won’t see you.”
“She won’t see me again. I am going,” she answered.
He would have detained her. “One moment,” he said eagerly, but she was not listening. “I shall miss you.”
After all she heard him. “Thank you,” she said gravely.
A door was closed on the landing below, and the master of the house glanced at it apprehensively. He was not sure—