Long ago she had become nauseated by all the glare and glitter, the chatter and music of those gilded salons where smart Rome amused themselves each evening. Whenever she could, she made excuses to stay at home in the quiet and silence of her own room; but as it was part of her father’s statecraft that she should be seen and congratulated, she was compelled very often to put on her magnificent gowns with a sigh, dance when her heart was leaden, and smile even though she was bursting with grief.
Yet she rigorously kept the secret of her self-sacrifice, and none suspected that the young French élégant had compelled her to accept him as husband. Indeed, Dubard was already very popular in Rome. He was possessed of means, belonged to the most exclusive Italian club, and drove a smart phaeton and pair each afternoon, frequently with Mary at his side.
The men and women who were Dubard’s friends were among the highest in society, yet none knew the truth save Borselli and George Macbean, neither of whom dare, for their own sakes, utter one single word in denunciation.
“You told me at Orton that the count was an old friend, Mr Macbean,” exclaimed Mary, after a brief pause. She had met his gaze unflinchingly, and then lowered her eyes to the ground. She looked fresh and neat in her plain black tailor-made gown, for she was dressed ready to go out for her morning walk in the Corso.
“Yes. We met several years ago,” was Macbean’s reply.
“Where?”
“In London.”
“You must have been close friends,” she remarked, “for he has on several occasions asked whether I had heard of you.”
George smiled, for his reflections were bitter ones. “Yes,” he said, “I knew him quite well; but we drifted apart, as friends so often do.”
“Then you will, of course, be glad to meet him again.”