"It's very good form here," she went on, dancing about her room. It was hardly more than a marble gallery, the peristyle choked with flowering bushes, camellias and althea and hibiscus, barely furnished, and filled with drifting perfumes and the savor of the sea. "What a shame that these things must be got at a price!"
Lavinia glanced at her sharply; until the present moment that would have expressed her own attitude, but said by Gheta it seemed a little crude. It was, anyhow, painfully obvious, and she had no intention of showing Gheta the true state of her being.
"Isn't that so of everything—worth having?" she asked, adding the latter purely as a counter.
The elder drew up her fine shoulders.
"That's very courageous of you," she admitted—"especially since everybody knew your opinion of Orsi. Heaven knows you made no effort to disguise your feeling to others."
Lavinia smiled calmly; Cesare was really very thoughtful, and she said so. Gheta replied at a sudden tangent:
"Mochales has been a great nuisance."
Lavinia was gazing through an opening in the leaves at the sparkling blue plane of the bay. She made no movement, aware of her sister's unsparing curiosity turned upon her, and only said:
"Really?"
"Spaniards are so tempestuous," Gheta continued; "he's been whispering a hundred mad schemes in my ear. He gave up an important engagement in Madrid rather than leave Florence. I have been almost stirred by him, he is so slender and handsome.
