progressed in silence. The coffee was on when the elder sister said:
"I had a card from the Grand Hotel a while ago; Abrego y Mochales is there."
"And there," Orsi put in promptly, "I hope he'll stay, or sail for Spain. I don't want the clown about here."
Gheta turned.
"But you will regret that," she addressed Lavinia; "you always found him so fascinating."
Lavinia's husband cleared his throat sharply; he was clearly impatiently annoyed.
"What foolishness!" he cried. "From the first, Lavinia has been scarcely conscious of his existence."
Lavinia avoided her sister's mocking gaze, disturbed and angry.
"Certainly Signore Mochales must be asked here," she declared.
"I suppose it can't be avoided," Orsi muttered.
It was arranged that the Spaniard should dine with them on the following evening and Lavinia spent the intervening time in exploring her emotions. She recognized now that Gheta hated both Cesare and herself, and that she would miss no opportunity to force an awkward or even dangerously unpleasant situation upon them. Gheta had sharpened in being as well as in countenance to such a degree that Lavinia lost what natural affection for her sister she had retained.
This, in a way, allied her with Cesare. She was now able at least to survey him in a detached manner, with an impersonal comprehension of his good qualities and aesthetic shortcomings; and in pointing out to Gheta the
