This displeased Borselli, he thought; for when he informed him of the Minister’s order, he remained silent and his sallow face assumed an expression of distinct disapproval. The general had not expected that Morini would take the young man into his service, or he would probably have hesitated to call him from London. Nevertheless, the Under-Secretary was too clever to openly exhibit any annoyance at the chief’s decision. Indeed, he was always humble and obedient, bowing to every decree of his superior, even though in his heart he was ever plotting against him. And so George Macbean had become one of His Excellency’s private secretaries, and very soon enjoyed a good deal of the confidence of his principal.
Hitherto, however, his work lying always at the Ministry, he had never had occasion to go to the palace. From the first moment of his arrival in Rome his mind had been full of recollections of Mary. He had seen her driving on the Pincio on the bright winter afternoons; he had passed her in the Corso, and had seen her, exquisitely gowned, seated with her mother in a box at the Constanzi. But she had never once noticed him, and on that morning, when he had been compelled to call at the palace to receive instructions from his chief, who was unwell, they had come suddenly face to face for the first time.
The meeting gave them mutual satisfaction. There was no doubt upon that point. She had looked hard at him ere she recognised him, for, like all the corridors in those mediaeval palaces, it was not very light, and she would have passed him without acknowledgment had he not uttered her name.
While standing there in that painted room with the tarnished gold furniture and mosaic floor, so different from the country drawing-room at Orton, with its bright chintzes and flowers, he had briefly told her of the unexpected offer that had reached him in England, of his acceptance, and of his ultimate appointment to be one of her father’s private secretaries.
“Only fancy!” she laughed. “The world is really very small, is it not? I never thought, when we played tennis together at your uncle’s tournament at Thornby, that you would be given an office in the Ministry of War. But I remember now how well you spoke Italian, and that you told me how fond you were of Italy.”
“I owe all my good fortune to your father, Miss Morini. Believe me, it has lifted me out of a world of drudgery and insult—for, as I think I told you, I have been secretary to a Member of Parliament named Morgan-Mason.”
“Ah! of course!” she exclaimed quickly, regarding him with a curious, fixed look. “You were secretary to Mr Morgan-Mason.”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Not personally,” she faltered, with some confusion. “I—well, I’ve heard of him. Some English friends of mine know him very well, and through them I have heard of the fellow’s pompous egotism.”
“Then you can well understand how very deeply I thank your father for his kindnesses towards me.” And then he spoke of her engagement, about which everyone in Rome was at that moment talking.