Two men had seated themselves on the opposite side of the globe and were talking. One of them was English and the other spoke with an Italian accent. The Italian, he knew, was the cousin of Faustino d'Orobelli. He was a middle-aged man and rich with the profits of an automobile factory. The Englishman he thought must be Admiral Burnham, whom he had not seen in more than twenty years until tonight—not, he thought, since he had gone to Malta on Nina's yacht on the voyage that ended in meeting Anna.
The two men were gossiping. He heard the Italian say, "After all, my cousin Faustino was never much of a husband for a woman like that." And "She has kept remarkably young. She is quite extraordinary."
And then the Englishman answering. "I knew her when she was first married. I met her in Malta. Do you remember her?"
The voice of the Italian. "That was a long time ago. Even her second son, . . . the one who is quite all right . . . is a grown man. But I hear she has come to the same end as most of them."
There was a sound of the admiral stirring in his chair, as if he were sitting up with interest.
"She's found someone to console her," continued the Italian voice. . . . "A young Italian. He calls himself a duke, but there are so many dukes. He makes ends meet by gambling. . . ." There was a slight pause, and then, "By doing what he can. But he won't need to worry for some time. She's very rich. It was her money that saved Faustino's family. She's an odd woman. She has no sense of
