a boy to be proud of, with red hair, people said, like his mother's. Only her hair had never been red. It was the red hair of his father—not Faustino, praise God, not Faustino but of Nigel. Victor wasn't a d'Orobelli. He wasn't even Italian. He was son of Nigel Burnham.
Another automobile was crossing the bridge. No, that wasn't Oreste either. His motor was grey and long. If I watch for him he'll never come. Ottilia said her cousin. More likely it's her lover. I can't go inside and sit there alone. O God, don't let anything happen to Oreste!
And Faustino didn't care that Victor wasn't his son, even though he knew it. Victor was the heir, the next Prince d'Orobelli. He had saved the line, Victor, the son of an English father and an American mother, Victor, product of six happy weeks in Malta. I was young then. I thought I wanted to dabble in archæology instead of life. Maybe it would have been better; I shouldn't be standing here now, suffering. Six weeks in Malta. No, that was worth all this suffering when you thought of the happiness, even the happiness of thinking about it now, years afterward. I am old, she thought. Everything is measured in years now instead of months. There had never been anything quite like Nigel, nothing so young and clean and unspoiled. It was probably his first affair, and mine, O God, mine was with Faustino, my husband. A clean affair like that with Nigel must be better in the eyes of God than legitimate marriage with a beast like Faustino. Odd how she thought of him always as he had been in Malta in his uniform as officer of
