“I am Italian, signore,” the man answered.
“Then, if the signorina is in any difficulty to-morrow, you will assist her?”
“Certainly, signore; my number is 42,” the man said, whisking off the empty plates and rearranging the knives.
“I wouldn’t go, only it is imperative for one or two reasons,” he explained to her. “In the morning you can take a cab, and the waiter will tell the driver that you want to go for an hour or so in the West—remember, the West End—not the East End. Then you will return to lunch, and have a rest in the afternoon. You know well that I’ll hasten back to you, dearest, at the earliest possible moment.”
“Yes,” she said, “go, by all means. You’ve often told me you like a day’s shooting, and I certainly do not begrudge my poor Nino any little pleasure.”
“Then you are sure you don’t object to being left alone?”
“Not in the least,” she laughed, as with that chic which was so charming she raised her wine-glass to her pretty lips.
When they had finished luncheon she went to her room, while he smoked a cigarette; then, when she re-appeared, he drove her to his own chambers in Ebury Street.
“My place is a bit gloomy, I’m afraid,” he explained on the way. “But we can chat there without interruption. In the hotel it is impossible.”
“No place is gloomy with my Nino,” she answered.