Kitty made no reply. She hurried along the northern side of the Piazza, avoiding the groups which were gathered in the sunset light round the flocks of feeding pigeons, brushing past the tables in front of the cafe's, still well filled on this mild evening.
"Take care!" said Cliffe, suddenly, in a low, imperative voice.
Kitty looked up. In her abstraction she saw that she had nearly come into collision with a woman sitting at a café table and surrounded by a noisy group of men.
With a painful start Kitty perceived the mocking eyes of Mademoiselle Ricci. The Ricci said something in Italian, staring the while at the English lady; and the men near her laughed, some furtively, some loudly.
Cliffe's face set. "Walk quickly!" he said in her ear, hurrying her past.
When they had reached one of the narrow streets behind the Piazza, Kitty looked at him—white and haughtily tremulous. "What did that mean?"
"Why should you deign to ask?" was Cliffe's impatient reply. "I have ceased to go and see her. I suppose she guesses why."
"I will have no rivalry with Mademoiselle Ricci!" cried Kitty.
"You can't help it," said Cliffe, calmly. "The powers of light are always in rivalry with the powers of darkness."
And without further pleading or excuse he stalked on, his gaunt form and striking head towering above the crowded pavement. Kitty followed him with difficulty, conscious of a magnetism and a force against which she struggled in vain.