“I shall have to pension her handsomely, shall I not?” he said lightly, as the butler opened the door for them to pass out.
The night was clear but unexpectedly cold. Over the tops of the high, narrow houses a hard heaven was studded with metallic stars. Anne shivered and drew closer to the Marchese.
“This hateful cold, it chills me to the marrow,” she murmured, between chattering teeth, as they went towards the car.
He stopped in his tracks, and bent over her.
“Let us leave it all behind us, Anne. Come with me to Italy!”
The entreaty was almost a command. Anne looked up into his face with growing decision. After all,—why not? She had kept him waiting long enough. She was about to speak, to put an end to his doubts, when a yellow taxi grazed the corner and stopped noisily back of Anne’s motor.
A slight figure jumped out and hurried across the sidewalk towards them.
“Is this Mrs. Schuyler?” inquired an eager young voice. Anne turned about in surprise. Where had she heard that intense voice, those words before? Apprehension descended upon her. She drew still closer to Vittorio.
“Yes, this is Mrs. Schuyler,” she answered mechanically. “What is it, what is the matter?”
An insistent hand was laid upon Anne’s sleeve.