He rose; and a few minutes later Lavinia saw his trim brown launch, with its awning and steersman in gleaming white, rushing through the bay toward Naples.
The basin from which the launch plied lay inside a seawall inclosing a small placid rectangle with a walk all about and iron benches. Steps at the back, guarded by two great Pompeian sandstone urns, and pressed by a luxuriant growth, led up to the villa. Gheta looked curiously about as she stepped from the launch and went forward with her brother-in-law. Lavinia followed, with Gheta's maid and a porter in the rear.
Lavinia realized that her sister looked badly; in the unsparing blaze of midday the wrinkles about her eyes were apparent, and they had multiplied. Although it was past the first of June, Gheta was wearing a linen suit of last year; and—as her maid unpacked—Lavinia saw the familiar pink tulle and the lavender gown with the gold velvet buttons.
"Your dressmaker is very late," she observed thoughtlessly.
A slow flush spread over the other's countenance; she did not reply immediately and Lavinia would have given a great deal to unsay her period.
"It isn't that," Gheta finally explained; "the family find that I am too expensive. You see, I haven't justified their hopes and they have been cutting down."
Her voice was thin, metallic; her features had sharpened like folded paper creased between the fingers.
