Then, approaching the conveyance, he exclaimed in Italian: “Allow me, signorina, to present my friend Major Gordon Maitland,—the Signorina Vittorina Rinaldo.”
“Your first visit to our country, I presume?” exclaimed the Major, in rather shaky Italian, noticing how eminently handsome she was.
“Yes,” she answered, smiling. “I have heard so much of your great city, and am all anxiety to see it.”
“I hope your sojourn among us will be pleasant. You have lots to see. How long shall you remain?”
“Ah! I do not know,” she answered. “A week—a month—a year—if need be.”
The two men exchanged glances. The last words she uttered were spoken hoarsely, with strange intonation. They had not failed to notice a curious look in her eyes, a look of fierce determination.
“Terribly hot in Leghorn,” observed Tristram, turning the conversation after an awkward pause of a few moments. Vittorina held her breath. She saw how nearly she had betrayed herself.
“It has been infernally hot here in London these past few days. I think I shall go abroad to-morrow. I feel like the last man in town.”
“Go to Wiesbaden,” Tristram said. “I was at the Rose ten days ago, and the season is in full swing. Not too hot, good casino, excellent cooking, and plenty of amusement. Try it.”
“No, I think I’ll take a run through the Dolomites,” he said. “But why have you been down to Leghorn? Surely it’s off your usual track.”