It lowered too his own sense of importance in the servants' hall, where each man took rank according to his master. He resented the butler's distant patronage, but his loyalty was proof against the strong temptation that beset him.
A chance remark of his disclosed the fact to McTaggart one evening as he dressed for dinner.
"Never mind, Mario. We'll go back to Rome for the winter months." He saw the olive face brighten and felt a sudden touch of pity.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you? I expect you find it lonely in England—though you're picking up the language fast. Have you heard lately from Lucia?"
He added the question with a smile. Lucia was the Principessa's maid and lived in a fine old Roman palace not far from his own flat.
"Sissignore—a letter last week. They are still at Viareggio. The Poet was taken very ill and Don Cesare has fought a duel."
"Never!—who with?" McTaggart laughed—"And why?"
Mario spread out his hands. "Chi lo sa?—They talk of a lady ... it was with the young Count Guido Chigi."
"He's starting young," McTaggart decided. "Lucia must have had her hands full. I shouldn't care to nurse the Poet. I should think he would keep her pretty busy!"
"And a good thing too," said Mario shrewdly. He did not approve of idleness for his betrothed during his absence.