"Well, all that we can do is to wait for them," he said.
"Oh yes," she answered easily. "They'll be sure to come back in the course of time."
They waited a half-hour, talking somewhat at random, and still the others did not come. But the red mask came again. He approached Colville, and said politely—
"La signora è partita."
"The lady gone?" repeated Colville, taking this to be part of the red mask's joke.
"La bambina pareva poco lene."
"The little one not well?" echoed Colville again, rising. "Are you joking?"
The mask made a deep murmur of polite deprecation. "I am not capable of such a thing in a serious affair. Perhaps you know me?" he said, taking off his mask, and in further sign of good faith he gave the name of a painter sufficiently famous in Florence.
"I beg your pardon, and thank you," said Colville. He had no need to speak to Imogene—, her hand was already trembling on his arm.
They drove home in silence through the white moonlight of the streets, filled everywhere with the gay voices and figures of the Carnival.