She looked into the Count’s small, shining eyes.
“Monsieur Androvsky?”
“If that is his name. I can send him an invitation, of course. But that’s rather formal, and I don’t think he is formal.”
“On what day do you ask us?”
“Any day—Friday.”
“And why do you ask us?”
“I wish to overcome this indifference to my garden. It hurts me, not only in my pride, but in my affections.”
The whole thing had been like a sort of serious game. Domini had not said that she would convey the odd invitation; but when she was alone, and thought of the way in which Count Anteoni had said “Persuade him,” she knew she would, and she meant Androvsky to accept it. This was an opportunity of seeing him in company with another man, a man of the world, who had read, travelled, thought, and doubtless lived.
She asked him that evening, and saw the red, that came as it comes in a boy’s face, mount to his forehead.
“Everybody who comes to Beni-Mora comes to see the garden,” she said before he could reply. “Count Anteoni is half angry with you for being an exception.”