A mischievous breeze played with the veil the Marchesa wore, of heavy crape, and every now and then McTaggart could catch a glimpse of her rounded chin and that flower-like mouth beneath the folds, vivid, alive and tantalizing.
He watched for it, lazily, leaning back against the high, padded cushions, and, conscious suddenly of his gaze, she turned her head and broke the silence.
"You are quite decided then, Pietro?" Her voice was sweetly disconsolate. "You will not come with me to Fiesole?"
"I can't, really. I'm very sorry. I must be getting back to England"—a faint smile curved his lips. "I've important business there just now. I assure you I'd stay if I could."
His aunt laughed, a trifle sharply.
"That means a woman, I should say!—'Important business'—at your age. There never yet was a Maramonte who was happy unless he was playing with fire."
Her dark eyes flashed through her veil an inquisitive glance, but he shook his head. He was not in a mood for confidences. Moreover, he knew that Cydonia's birth would hardly fulfil his aunt's requirements and dreaded a possible catechism.
"It's your sister's villa, near Florence, where you are going, isn't it?"
The Marchesa nodded lazily.
"And beautiful..." she stirred herself—"it faces the Arno valley with a wide loggia due south. She's my eldest sister—I was the baby—and her daughter, Bianca, must be sixteen. There's no son—such a grief! My brother-in-law breaks his heart about it. He is a Florentine himself, with an old palazzo (now shut up) and some fine pictures near the Cascine."