“And also to you, my daughter,” added the librarian, meaningly.
Emory approached as Cerini left her side. “Every one is in the garden now, Helen. May I take you there?”
Helen glanced around for her husband, and saw him somewhat apart from the other guests engaged in a conversation with the Contessa Morelli. Unconsciously her mind went back to what the contessa had said to her about marriage in general and about her husband in particular, and she wondered what her new friend thought of him, now that they had actually met.
“Jack has his hands full for the present,” Emory remarked, noting her glance. “You need not worry about him. By Jove, Helen, you are simply stunning to-night!” he continued, in a low voice, as they strolled across the veranda. “I have been anxious about you, but now you are yourself again. You should always wear white.”
Helen made no answer. She was recalling to herself the fact that to-night, for the first time, Jack had made no comment upon her appearance, as he had always done before; yet she had tried to wear the very things which he preferred. After all, she thought, it was better so. But what a mockery to stand beside a man, as she stood with Jack this evening, jointly receiving their friends and their friends’ congratulations! What deception! What ignominy!
In the mean time, as Emory had surmised, Armstrong had his hands sufficiently full with the contessa. Her mind had been too constantly applied to her interesting problem, during the days which had elapsed since her call upon Cerini, to allow this opportunity to escape her. She had exercised every art she possessed to learn something further from Helen; she even had Emory take tea with her with the same definite object in view; but either consciously or unconsciously both had parried her diplomatic questioning with an air so natural and simple as to convince her that they were not unskilled themselves in the game in which she considered herself an adept. The one thing which remained was the picture she had seen at the library; but this had been so positive in the impression which it had made that she found herself even more keen than ever to follow up the small advantage she had gained.
Watching her opportunity, Amélie found herself beside Armstrong, with the other guests far enough removed to enable her to converse with him without being overheard.
“All Florence owes you a debt of gratitude for bringing your beautiful wife here,” she began. “And how generous you have been to let us have so much of her while you have been otherwise engaged!”
“It has been my misfortune not to be able to share her social pleasures,” Armstrong replied. “Perhaps she has told you of the serious work upon which I am engaged.”
“Yes, indeed,” answered the contessa, cheerfully. “I am sure every man in Florence who has had an opportunity to meet your wife has blessed you for your devotion to this ‘serious work,’ as you call it. Italian husbands are not so generous, especially upon their honeymoon.”