“But Vittorio really likes New York, that is, some aspects of it,” she said courteously.
Anne shook her head with a dry little laugh. “Don’t try to spare my feelings. He hated it. He was horribly bored with us all.”
The Marchesa’s eyes twinkled. She shook a coquettish finger slightly crooked from rheumatism in Anne’s face.
“Not bored with you, my dear. You cannot make me believe that. You are the apple of his eye.”
Anne helped herself hastily to a buttered scone. “I’m afraid the apple stuck in his throat more than once,” she murmured with a nervous laugh.
The old woman looked at her wistfully. No, certainly, Anne was not herself. What could be the matter? Some love affair, perhaps?
“When are you going to make us both happy?” The old voice was very gentle.
“Do you still want me?” With averted head Anne fingered the teacups.
“More than ever, sweet child! I cannot bear to think of poor Vittorio spending the rest of his life pottering about musty old ruins. And that is what he will do if you won’t have him, my dear. He refuses to look at any one else!”
“But he loves ruins, doesn’t he?” Anne teased, her equanimity somewhat restored.