She folded her fan carefully. "It's a fearful blow for Bellanti—I hear he's quite at his wits' end."
The pretty Countess bit her lip; under the table her hands were clenched.
"I can't pity him," said the Poet. He spoke with an air of authority. "'A fool and his money' ... you know the proverb?" His eyes sparkled vindictively.
"Oh—Gabriele!" The Princess was shocked. "And you so 'simpatico,' too!"
"He has no brains," the Poet declared—"and he lives a base, material life."
"I'm awfully sorry," McTaggart frowned. "He's the best rider to hounds I know. I'll never forget a run I had with him last winter in the Campagna. And a jolly nice fellow too."
He glanced across at Don Cesare, who was eyeing the Poet with disgust.
"We shall miss Bellanti," said the Countess. Her voice was calm. "I must write to his sister. Poor Bice! She was always so fond of him. I don't say he was intellectual"—she looked at the Poet thoughtfully—at his ugly, weak little face—"but so good looking—a thorough man."
The Principessa followed her gaze.
Don Cesare laughed aloud. "Well—give me good looks any day—and a good seat. I'm for Bellanti."