'Ah! Mr. Manisty!' said the priest, with a long, startled sigh. 'I trust he is well, Madame?'
Eleanor flushed.
'I believe so. He and Miss Manisty are still at Marinata. Father Benecke!'
'Madame?'
Eleanor turned aside, poking at the stones on the road with her parasol.
'You would do me a kindness if for the present you would not mention my being here to any of your friends in Rome, to—to anybody, in fact. Last autumn I happened to pass by this place, and thought it very beautiful. It was a sudden determination on my part and Miss Foster's—you remember the American lady who was staying with us?—to come here. The villa was getting very hot, and—and there were other reasons. And now we wish to be quite alone for a little while—to be in retirement even from our friends. You will, I am sure, respect our wish?'
She looked up, breathing quickly. All her sudden colour had gone. Her anxiety and discomposure were very evident. The priest bowed.
'I will be discreet, Madame,' he said, with the natural dignity of his calling. 'May I ask you to excuse me? I have to walk into Selvapendente to fetch a letter.'
He took off his flat beaver hat, bowed low and departed, swinging along at a great pace. Eleanor felt herself repulsed. She hurried back to the convent. The children were waiting for her at the door, and when they saw that she was alone they took their soldi, though with a touch of sulkiness.
And the door was opened to her by Lucy.