"Do you like Italy?" he inquired, after a pause.
"No, I hate it!" And the animus in Lady Level's answer was so intense that the husband and wife exchanged stolen glances. Something must be out of gear.
"What parts of Italy did you stay in?"
"Chiefly at Pisa—that is not far from Florence, you know; and a few days at Florence. Lord Level took a villa at Pisa for a month—and why he did so I could not tell, for it was not the season when the English frequent it: no one, so to say, was there. We made the acquaintance of a Mrs. Page Reid, who had the next villa to ours."
"That was pleasant for you—if you liked her."
"But I did not like her," returned Lady Level, her delicate cheeks flushing. "That is, I did and I did not. She was a very pleasant woman, always ready to help us in any way; but she told dreadful tales of people—making one suspect things that otherwise would never have entered the imagination. Lord Level liked her at first, and ended by disliking her."
"Got up a flirtation with her," thought Mr. Ravensworth. But in that he was mistaken. And so they talked on.
It appeared that the mail passed through the village at night time; and the following morning a letter lay on the breakfast-table for Lady Level.
My Dear Blanche,—I have met with a slight accident, and must again postpone coming to you for a few days. I dare say it will not detain me very long. Rely upon it I shall be with you as soon as I possibly can be.—Ever affectionately yours, Level.
"Short and sweet!" exclaimed Blanche, in her bitter disappointment, as she read the note at the window. "Arnold, when you and your wife leave to-morrow, what will become of me, alone here? If——"