The priest would have liked to know if she had been at the Annonciata
ever since her visit to him. Prince Della Robbia had not mentioned her,
on New Year's Day, but that was no sure argument of his ignorance. Miss
Bland's presence might not seem of importance to him. The cure asked
himself if it would be indiscreet to bring up the subject when he next
saw Angelo. Any day, now, he might have a summons to lunch with the
bride and bridegroom, and to bless their villa, which he had been
requested to do as soon as they were settled.
Almost involuntarily he kept alert, listening for the name of Della
Robbia, but it was not uttered. The elder woman evidently enjoyed her
position as cicerone, and at last her catalogue of celebrities so
wearied the cure that he grew nervous. He turned to watch Lady Dauntrey,
at a distance, trying to read her face and that of the melancholy man he
took to be her husband. He did not like to think of Miss Grant--his
Principino's Miss Grant--being at that woman's house.
"We shall see what can be done," he said to himself, trying to enliven
the long minutes of his waiting, minutes which seemed to grow longer and
ever longer, like shadows at evening.
By six o'clock the great hall and tea-room adjoining were nearly empty.
The Dauntreys and the Holbeins had gone, and nearly all the pretty,
chattering young women who were like advertisements in picture-papers.
Still Miss Bland and her friend lingered over their tea and cakes,
though they had ceased to eat or drink; and the cure could not help
thinking that they had a special object in staying on.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344