“Train just signalled, sir.”
Pasquale put out his hand after another glance at his watch.
“I am sorry I cannot wait to greet the fair one. I’ll drop in soon and pay my respects. I am only just back in London, you know. A rivederci.”
He waved me farewell and hurried off. The arrival of the train, the exuberance of Carlotta, the joy of having her sidle up against me once more in the cab while she poured out her story, and the subsequent gaiety of the evening banished Pasquale from my mind. But it is odd that I should have met him at Paddington.
We parted on the landing to dress for dinner. A moment afterwards there was a beating at my door. I opened it to behold Carlotta, in a glow of wondering delight, brandishing a silver-backed brush in one hand and the hand-mirror in the other.
“Oh, my darling Seer Marcous! For me? All that for me?”
“No. It is for Antoinette,” said I.
“Oh-h!”
She laughed and pulled me by the arm into her room and shut the door.
“Oh, everything is beautiful, beautiful, and I shall die if I do not kiss you.”