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After that first sleep, induced by fatigue and by Utta's ministrations, Brinnaria slept little. She tossed and turned. Before her eyes was continually the recollection of that row of saffron-clad minxes, of their exuberant health, heartiness and rollicking vivacity. The memory of them suffocated her.
Through it all Brinnaria was haunted by her memory of two pictures. One was of the row of saffron-clad hussies watching the fight. The King of the Grove was the only legal polygamist in Italy.
"He must be a lightning change artist like the one down to the vawdyveel that Pete was tellin' of!" Then two wonderful, heart-throbbing things happened. John took Amarilly's saffron-clad hand in his and told her in earnest, convincing tones how glad he was that she had come, and that he should look for her every Sunday. "He held up the hull p'rade fer me!" she thought exultingly.
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