“Marchese, I insist upon your going.”
She opened the door. She was very pale, but she looked calm. The crouching woman had vanished. She was mistress of herself.
“Gaspare!” she called, in a loud, sharp voice that betrayed the inner excitement her appearance did not show.
“Signora,” vociferated the Marchesino, “I say and I repeat—”
“Gaspare! Come here!”
“Signora!” cried a voice from below.
Gaspare came running.
“The Signore Marchese is going, Gaspare. Go down with him to the boat, please.”
The Marchesino grew scarlet. The hot blood rushed over his face, up to his forehead, to his hair. Even his hands became red in that moment.
“Good-bye, Marchese.”