"Simply every woman—except perhaps me—is in love with him."
"There's no danger of your loving any one besides yourself."
"I saw him the day before I left; told him where I was going. Then I had to beg him not to take the same train. He said he was going to Naples, anyhow, to sail from there for Spain. He will be at the Grand Hotel and I gave him permission to see me here once."
Lavinia revolved slowly.
"Why not? He turned my head round at least twice." She moved toward the door. "Ring whenever you like," she said; "there are servants for everything."
In her room she wondered, with burning cheeks, when Abrego y Mochales would come. Her sentimental interest in him had waned a trifle during the past busy weeks; but, in spite of that, he was the great romantic attachment of her life. If he had returned her love no whispered scheme would have been too mad. What would he think of her now? But she knew instinctively that there would be no change in Mochales' attitude. He was in love with Gheta; blind to the rest of the world.
She sat lost in a day-dream—how different her life would have been, married to the bull-fighter! She would have become a part of the fierce Spanish crowds at the ring, traveled to South America, seen the people heap roses, jewels, upon her idol. . . .
Cesare Orsi stood in the doorway, smiling with oppressive good-nature.
"Lavinia," he told her, "I've done something, and now I'm in the devil of a doubt." He advanced, holding a
