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Updated: May 8, 2025
Anna Mantegazza was laughing at a puzzled expression on the good-natured countenance of Cesare Orsi; Gheta was slowly waving a fan of gilded feathers; Abrego y Mochales was standing rigid and somberly handsome; and, as usual, Pier Mantegazza was late.
In her room she wondered, with burning cheeks, when Abrego y Mochales would come. Her sentimental interest in him had waned a trifle during the past busy weeks; but, in spite of that, he was the great romantic attachment of her life. If he had returned her love no whispered scheme would have been too mad. What would he think of her now?
A feeling of impotence overwhelmed her at the implacable stillness that succeeded her hysterical outburst. She stood with a pounding heart, and clasped straining fingers. Abrego y Mochales could kill Cesare without the slightest shadow of a question.
A possibility suddenly filled her with dread it was evident that the Spaniard was growing hourly more absorbed in Gheta, and the latter might Lavinia could not support the possibility of Abrego y Mochales married to her sister.
"He resembles a juggler." Lavinia elaborately masked her hot resentment at this fresh stupidity. She must not, she felt, allow Orsi to discover her feeling for Abrego y Mochales; that was a secret she must keep forever from the profane world. She would die, perhaps at a terribly advanced age, with it locked in her heart. But if Gheta married him she would go into a convent.
It's Abrego y Mochales, the greatest bullfighter in existence, the Flower of Spain. I've seen him in the ring and at San Sebastian with the King; and I can assure you that one was hardly more important than the other. He's idolized by every one in Spain and South America; women of all classes fall over each other with declarations and gifts."
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."
Anna Mantegazza turned to the younger with a new veiled scrutiny. Her gaze rested for an instant on Orsi and then moved contemplatively to Gheta and Abrego y Mochales. It was evident that her thoughts were very busy; a faint sparkle appeared in her eyes, a fresh vivacity animated her manner.
"Do you talk to me Abrego y Mochales?" A dark tide of passion, visible even in the night, flooded Orsi's countenance. "Leave!" he insisted, "Or I'll have you flung into the bay." A deep silence followed, in which Lavinia could hear the stir of the water against the walls below. A sharp fear entered her heart, a new dread of the Spaniard.
"The Contessa Mantegazza," Bembo said suavely, "Signorina Sanviano, this is Abrego y Mochales." The bull-fighter bowed with magnificent flexibility. A hot resentment possessed Lavinia at Bembo's apparent ignoring of her; but he had not seen her at first and hastened to repair his omission. Lavinia inclined her head stiffly.
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