"Vittoria is back in the kitchen preparing my diet," said Myra Nell. "She's making fudge, I believe. I—I seem to crave sweet things. Maybe it's another symptom."
"It must be," Blake acknowledged. "I'll ask her what she thinks of it." With a glance at the slumbering guard he vaulted the low fence and made his way around to the rear of the house.
He heard Vittoria singing as he came into the flower-garden, a low-pitched Sicilian love-song. He called to her, and she came to a window, smiling down at him, spotless and fresh in her stiff uniform.
"Do you know that you're trespassing and may get into trouble?" she queried.
"The watchman is asleep, and I had to speak to you."
"No wonder he sleeps. Myra Nell holds the poor fellow responsible for all her troubles, and those young men have nearly driven him insane."
"Is there any danger of smallpox, really?"
"Not the slightest. This quarantine is merely a matter of form. But that child—" She broke into a frank, sweet laugh. "She pretends to be horribly frightened. All the time she is acting—the little fraud!"
Norvin flushed a bit under her gaze.
"I had no chance to talk to you last night."