—the Flower of Spain! And by a helpless mound of fat, a tub of entrails"
"Cesare!" Lavinia cried in an energy of desperation. "Come! Don't listen to him."
Orsi released her grasp.
"I believe you are at the Grand Hotel?" he addressed the other man.
"Until I hear from you."
"To-morrow"
All the heat had apparently evaporated from their words; they spoke with a perfunctory politeness. Cesare Orsi said:
"I will order the launch."
In a few minutes the palpitations of the steam died in the direction of Naples.
Lavinia followed her husband to their rooms, where he sat smoking one of his long black cigars. He was pale; his brow was wet and his collar wilted. She stood beside him and he patted her arm.
"Everything is in order," he assured her.
A species of blundering tenderness for him possessed her; an unexpected throb of her being startled and robbed her of words. He mistook her continued silence.
"All I have is yours," he explained; "it is your right. I can see now that—that my money was all I had to offer you. The only thing of value I possess. I should have realized that a girl, charming like yourself, couldn't care for a mound of fat."
