you converse almost cordially with one whom I know you regard as a mere flâneur—a man of fashion.”
“It must be because he seems a link with the part of the world where Tom is,” said Margaret weakly. “I suppose,” she added, “that Curatulo is just what you say—a flâneur, a man of fashion. He certainly looks it.”
“He certainly looks it, and he probably is it,” said Anne. “He is probably also a few things besides. In the French Revolution, dandies showed that they could die like men.”
“I had rather they lived like men,” said Margaret dryly. “And I don’t call it living like a man to pass from one woman’s salon to another and spend the remaining hours strolling on the Corso.”
“It is an incredible life,” said Anne warmly. “It is a detestable one,” she added, as the limousine drove under a sombre stone entrance and stopped by a liveried porter who opened the door.
Mrs. Garrison was growing accustomed to Roman entrances, but this one was unusually stony, chilly, and vast. As she and her niece climbed up two huge flights of stairs she murmured resentfully that there was no sign of an elevator.
“You must learn to say ‘lift’ on this side of the water,” said Anne gayly, from several steps above.18
