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Mills, who is just back from over the frontier, must have been asking R. whether she had been worried again by her devoted friend with the white hair. At least I concluded so because I found them talking of the heart-broken Azzolati. And after having answered their greetings I sit and listen to Rita addressing Mills earnestly. “No, I assure you Azzolati had done nothing to me. I knew him.
There was something whimsical in the quick beat of her eyelids and in the subtle quiver of her lips. “And behold! the same notion had occurred to Azzolati. Imagine that for this tête-
I hear light footsteps behind closed doors. . . My own!” Her eyes, her half-parted lips, remained fixed till Mills suggested softly, “Yes, but Azzolati.” Her rigidity vanished like a flake of snow in the sunshine. “Oh! Azzolati. It was a most solemn affair. It had occurred to me to make a very elaborate toilet. It was most successful.
And I thought suddenly of Azzolati being ordered to take himself off from her presence for ever, in that voice the very anger of which seemed to twine itself gently round one’s heart. No wonder the poor wretch could not forget the scene and couldn’t restrain his tears on the plain of Rambouillet. My moods of resentment against Rita, hot as they were, had no more duration than a blaze of straw.
“Certainly,” said Mills in an unaltered voice. “As to this body you . . .” “Oh, yes! Thanks. It’s a very poor jest. Change from body to body as travellers used to change horses at post houses. I’ve heard of this before. . . .” “I’ve no doubt you have,” Mills put on a submissive air. “But are we to hear any more about Azzolati?” “You shall. Listen.
You are a mere child at it. When you want a middle-aged gentleman to do anything for you, you don’t begin by reducing him to tears. I should have thought any woman would have known that much. A nun would have known that much. What do you say? Shall I run back to Paris and make it up for you with Azzolati?” He waited for her answer. The compression of his thin lips was full of significance.
That’s what it is having to do with men more than mere—Good-morning—Good evening. And if you try to avoid meddling with their lids, some of them will take them off themselves. And they don’t even know, they don’t even suspect what they are showing you. Certain confidences—they don’t see it—are the bitterest kind of insult. I suppose Azzolati imagines himself a noble beast of prey.
“The personage mistrusts his own susceptibility. Born cautious,” explained Doña Rita crisply with the slightest possible quiver of her lips. “Suddenly I had the inspiration to make use of Azzolati, who had been reminding me by a constant stream of messages that he was an old friend. I never took any notice of those pathetic appeals before.
All these fellows’ nerves are upset from worry as to what will happen to the Allègre collection. And no wonder they are nervous. A big art event hangs on your lips, my dear, great Rita. And by the way, you too ought to remember that it isn’t wise to quarrel with people. What have you done to that poor Azzolati?
To go about like that suited my indolence, my longing to feel free in my body, as at that time when I used to herd goats. . . But never mind. My aim was to impress Azzolati. I wanted to talk to him seriously.”
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