There, in the fading afterglow, when the sun had disappeared behind the distant headland, I told her, in reply to her question, of my love and its disillusionment. I told her his name—Ernest Cameron—and at mention of it I thought I detected her dark brows grow narrow for an instant. But surely it was only fancy, for these two had certainly never met.
"You have all my sympathy, Carmela," she said, in her soft Italian, when I had told her the truth. "You have suffered, poor child. Your words tell me so."
"Yes," I responded frankly. "I have suffered, and am still suffering. Another woman stole his love from me, and I am left deserted, forlorn; outwardly a smart figure as you see me, but within my heart is the canker-worm of hatred."
"He may return to you," she said. "His fancy may be a mere passing one. Men are so very fickle."
"No," I declared quickly, "it is all ended between us. I loved only once—loved him with all the charm of a first attachment. She who entertains this sentiment lives no longer for herself. It was so in my case. In all my aspirations, my hopes, my energies; in all my confidence, my enthusiasm, my fortitude, my own existence was absorbed in his interests. But now I am despised and forgotten."
She was so sympathetic that more than once I was tempted to confide to her the whole of the strange facts and the mysteries that were so puzzling to me. But I hesitated—and in my hesitation resolved to keep my own counsel.
We dined together, taking our wine from the big rush-covered fiasco of Chianti placed in its swinging stand, according to the custom of Tuscany; eating various dishes peculiarly Italian, and being waited upon by two maids who spoke in that quaint but musical dialect of the Tuscan shore.
Throughout the meal my thoughts wandered from my surroundings to the dastardly plot formed to destroy the Vispera. Where, I wondered, was old Mr. Keppel? For aught I knew, both he and his unseen accomplice were engaged in buying explosives for the purpose of causing the contemplated disaster.
Velia believed my preoccupation to be due to our conversation before dinner, and I allowed her to continue in that belief.
Dinner in an Italian household is a very different meal to the French table d'hôte or the English evening meal. The courses are varied, and from the anti-pasti to the dolci, all is new to the English palate. Those who have lived sufficiently long in Italy to become imbued with its charm know well how difficult it is to relish the substantial English cooking when one goes on a visit to the old country; just as difficult as it is to enjoy the grey skies and smoky cities of money-making Britain after the brightness and sunshine of the garden of Europe.