The Marchesa laughed ruefully. “Yes, he seems to have an inextinguishable fondness for antiques, including his mother.”
“Perhaps then, if I wait a little longer, I shall acquire more value in his eyes, become more mellow, you know.”
“Wicked child! You speak of yourself as if you were a cheese!”
“Speaking of cheese, that reminds me. I golfed with the Principe this morning. You know he is in very bad odor here at present? I felt quite devilish being seen with him.”
“Some new scandal?” The black eyes twinkled.
Anne shrugged. “A cinema actress, I believe.” She lighted a cigarette and puffed at it delicately. “He had the temerity to propose to me again.”
The Marchesa’s foot tapped upon the bricks. “Impoverished old wretch! I can’t bear to have you exposed to such things, Anne. Why don’t you marry us, and protect yourself against these adventurers?”
Secure in her own immense fortune, the Marchesa serenely felt her son to be above suspicion.
Anne pretended to be immensely shocked. “The idea of calling the Principe an adventurer. Why, his one foot in the grave would break off if he could hear you. He is count of this, marchese of that,” she flicked her ashes flippantly, “and a Spanish Grandee to boot. I ought to know, he has enumerated his titles to me often enough.”
The Marchesa cackled merrily. “I suggest his getting out a catalogue for the benefit of American heiresses. Old braggart! Why doesn’t he ask me? I’m nearer his age!”