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"Where we all get our faces from, I suppose!" answered Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, with her easy laugh. She was always mistress of the situation. "The heavenly warehouse, one supposes. His name is Barebone. He is a friend of Dormer's." "Any friend of Dormer Colville's commands my interest." Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced quickly at her companion beneath the shade of her lace-trimmed parasol.
Come, Barchone into the saddle." They waited, both looking at Juliette; for she had not spoken. "I wish you good luck," she said, at length, patting the neck of Colville's horse, her face wearing a little mystic smile. Thus they departed, at sunset, on a journey of which old men will still talk in certain parts of France.
"Is that so?" he asked, with an effect of polite curiosity. "Yes." Imogene softly clapped her hands, unseen by Mrs. Bowen, for Colville's instruction that all was going well. If it delights women to pet an undangerous friend of our sex, to use him like one of themselves, there are no words to paint the soft and flattered content with which his spirit purrs under their caresses.
Dormer Colville's reflective smile, as he gazed at the distant sea, would seem to indicate that, after a considerable experience of men and women, he had reluctantly arrived at a certain conclusion respecting them. "No man born of woman, Marquis, is proof against bribery or flattery or both."
It was on Colville's tongue to say that he had made all the romances he wished for that evening, but he only answered, "Oh, very." "Poor Mrs. Bowen," laughed the girl. "It will be such a joke on her, with her punctilious notions, getting lost from her protegee at a Carnival ball! I shall tell every one." "Oh no, don't," said Colville, in horror that big mask scarcely concealed. "Why not?"
"What does he want?" And to judge from Mr. Dormer Colville's pace it would appear that he chiefly desired to interrupt their tete-a-tete. When River Andrew stated that there were few at Farlingford who knew more of Frenchman than himself, it is to be presumed that he spoke by the letter, and under the reserve that Captain Clubbe was not at the moment on shore.
I feel as if I could dance for a week." She was still dancing; she gave Colville's foot an accidental tap in keeping time on the floor of the carriage to the tune she was humming. No one said anything about a next meeting when they parted at the gate of Palazzo Pinti, and Mrs. Bowen bade her coachman drive Colville to his hotel.
"There will be a difference, you understand. You will be a different person from what you were when last there," he went on, in a muffled voice. "Yes, I understand," replied Barebone, gravely. Already the dream was taking shape Colville's persuasive voice had awakened him to find that it was no dream, but a reality and Farlingford was fading back into the land of shadows.
Come, Barebone into the saddle." They waited, both looking at Juliette; for she had not spoken. "I wish you good luck," she said, at length, patting the neck of Colville's horse, her face wearing a little mystic smile. Thus they departed, at sunset, on a journey of which old men will still talk in certain parts of France.
A band of young men burst from one of the narrow streets leading into the piazza and straggled across it, letting their voices flare out upon the silence, and then drop extinct one by one. A whole world of faded associations flushed again in Colville's heart. This was Italy; this was Florence; and he execrated the hour in which he had dreamed of returning.
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