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Above, Lavinia halted at the strange spectacle clearly drawn against the luminous depths of space of Mochales and her husband rigidly facing each other. "I must admit," Orsi said in an exasperated voice, "that I don't understand." Lavinia saw that he was holding something in a half-extended hand. Moving closer, she identified the object as the necklace he had given Gheta.
Her eyes while she was speaking were directed toward Anna Mantegazza and the resentment changed to hatred. The other shrugged her shoulders indifferently and moved toward the dining room, catching Lavinia's arm in her own. Mantegazza entered at the soup and was seated on Gheta's right; Cesare Orsi was on Anna's left; and Lavinia sat between the two men, with Mochales opposite.
Against the blue water shadowed by the promise of dusk he was a somber and splendid figure. Her heart undeniably beat faster and she was vexed when he turned immediately to Gheta. His greeting was intensely serious, his gaze so hungry that Lavinia looked away. It was vulgar, she told herself. Cesare met them above and greeted Mochales with a superficial heartiness.
The Spaniard regarded Gheta Sanviano so fixedly that after a moment she turned, in a species of constraint, to Anna. The latter spoke with her customary facility and the man responded gravely. They stood a little aside from Lavinia; she only partly heard their remarks, but she saw that Abrego y Mochales' attention never strayed from her sister. Vicariously it made her giddy.
At least then she would have some one with whom to recall the pleasant trifles of past years. She would have liked to ask Anna Mantegazza, too; but this she knew was impossible Gheta had not forgiven Anna for her part on the night that had resulted in Orsi's proposal for Lavinia. She wondered, more obscurely, whether Abrego y Mochales was still in Florence.
He was completely outside the circle of impulses which she understood and to which she reacted. He was not a part of her world; he coldly menaced the foundations of all right and security. Her worship of romance died miserably. In a way, she thought, she was responsible for the present horrible situation; it was the result of the feeling she had had for Mochales.
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?
The cigar fell from his hand and he rose, eagerly facing her. "Lavinia," he asked, "is it possible do you mean that you care the least about me?" "It must be that, Cesare, because I am so terribly afraid." Later he admitted ruefully: "But no man should resemble, as I do, a great oyster. I shall pay very dearly for my laziness." "You are not going to fight Mochales!" she protested.
Mochales, she decided, must be the handsomest man in existence. His unchanging gravity fascinated her the man's face, his voice, his dignified gestures, were all steeped in a splendid melancholy. "I am a peasant," he said, apparently addressing them all, but with his eyes upon Gheta, "from Estremadura, in the mountains.
The bull-fighter, completely immobile, seemed a little inhuman; he was without a visible stir of emotion, but Orsi looked more puzzled and angry every moment. "This," he ejaculated, "in my own house infamous!" "Signor Mochales," Lavinia reiterated, "what I have told you is absolutely so."
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