There were only, really, two sorts of women—his bitter reasoning went on—the innocent and stupid and weak: and the strong ones, clever and corrupt.
"Sit down and have some wine." From her seat in the low "bergère" she held out an inviting hand. "Dio! how cold you are!"
For his fingers were icy, his brain hot.
"Never with you, ma chère tante—Impossible." He bent his head to kiss her fragrant slender wrist—then changed his mind as he caught a glance from the dark eyes full of coquetry.
For the first time he took advantage of the new relationship, but without pleasure, merely an outward symbol of the queer recklessness he felt.
"My business is settled. Are you glad? I'm coming with you to Fiesole."
She offered him her other cheek with the frank gaiety of a child.
"Tu vois!" She laughed merrily. "But, indeed, I am charmed. And my sister, too—she will be glad to welcome you." Her face sobered on the words. She poured him out a glass of wine, watching his smile fade away. He looked pale and strained now. Shrewdly she probed his change of mood.
"That 'business'——" she said to herself. "I was right—a woman!—I wonder where? The boy's wounded—one sees that—let's hope it's only a passing fancy. All the better for my plan ... at no time is a man so weak as after a lover's quarrel. But now—one must move cautiously. I shall wire to Fiesole to-night—Bianca must leave the Convent. It would be wise to find her there—a surprise to us both." She glanced at the clock. Then, in her soft, musical voice, she went on with her speech.
"You will not find it dull, I hope? With my mourning, you understand, we shall live very quietly. Just you and I and my sister there—and my brother-in-law, en famille."