Desolate splendour

“I am told that Molly Leighton has a party this afternoon. Shall we go?”

“And who is Molly Leighton?”

“She is a very smart and amusing little American. I knew her before she married. As a matter of fact, she is now Madame la Comtesse of something or other, so there is no Molly Leighton, but I can only think of her as old Hiram Leighton’s pretty daughter.”

“Yet another old romance!”

“Not quite, my dear. American women are all that is charming, but they don’t work as tender memories. No half lights about Molly—just a jolly girl and a bit of a minx.”

“Let us go to her party. Will there be music?”

Charles shrugged and walked to the window of the hotel sitting-room. It was early December and the Tuileries Gardens sparkled in winter sunshine.

“Maybe music; certainly frills and sparkling eyes. We go, then? Perhaps she’ll ask us to her box at the opera. Let us hope; the Leightons used to be good at theatre suppers.”

Viola laughed, hoped Madame la Comtesse would do her duty, and moved to the door.

“I want to see Lavrolle about that evening frock. Will you take me?”

Charles looked at his watch.

“In half an hour. I have some letters to do. You go and start getting ready; it usually requires a bit of time!”

She put out her tongue, playfully impudent. As she left the room she glanced at her reflection in the tall mirror by the door. The reflection pleased her. Satisfied, she sought her bedroom and gave thought to the achievement of street-going perfection.

§ 2

The hotel of the Comte de Villehardouin overlooked the Parc Monceau. Its salons were large and elegant, and no less large or elegant was the crowd that filled them. Viola, at her guardian’s side, made slow progress to where stood the hostess of the afternoon. She was not impatient, savouring with enjoyment the smartly dressed throng, the murmur of cultivated talk, the overt admiration of the young bucks to left and right. It was her real debut in metropolitan society, and already the thrill of a greater triumph menaced the satisfaction of past exploits. This was a worthy stage; her earlier appearances shrank to provincial nothings. About her, in maddening convolution, swirled the dark worship of men. Like a dancer on a brilliant stage, she felt their eyes converge hungrily upon her loveliness. Deliciously she shivered, fear and vanity struggling with composure for mastery. Charles’ voice dispelled the clouds of her intoxication. He was greeting his hostess.

“Molly! How nice to see you after these æons!”

“Why, I do believe it’s Charles Plethern! Now Charles, stand right here and tell me all about your wicked self. I do declare I as soon expected to see the man in the moon!”

“He’d have more gossip for you, my dear! I’ve become a domestic paragon. And this is why. Viola, let me introduce you to a charming person. Molly, this infant has been left me to look after.”

The Comtesse absorbed Viola in one flickering glance. Then she turned to Charles and shook her head roguishly.

“My, what a man! I verily believe if you had a haunted house, Charles Plethern, the ghost would be the prettiest girl in the whole roundabout! Let me look at you, child. If you aren’t the sweetest thing! Now you must both come to the opera with me to-morrow night. Say you will! That’s fine! Ask for my box, and we’ll have a nice little supper afterwards. Now I must do my social duties. Just you play around and keep smiling and I’ll have a good talk to you both later.”

As she moved onward at her guardian’s side, Viola was suddenly conscious of a new and aggressive scrutiny. Cautiously she glanced to right and left. Music having begun in a farther room, the salon in which they found themselves was comparatively clear of people, so that she was not long in identifying her importunate observer.

“Charles,” she whispered, “who is that over there?—on the sofa?”

Following her discreet gesture, he turned as though casually, and saw against the far wall a languid figure, propped gracefully on an ornate settee. Its long emaciated face—clean-shaven, dead white save where a touch of unconvincing rose gave colour to the cheeks, with eyebrows like painted strokes—was crowned by a mass of auburn hair, elaborately waved and parted scrupulously along the middle of the head; its body, swathed in some kind of flowing gown of dark, rich silk, drooped rather than lay against the sofa arm; below the fringe of the unusual garment gleamed patent shoes, high-heeled and silver buckled; above them were stockings, glimpsed rather than seen, of deep claret-purple.

Charles Plethern surveyed this curious phenomenon as his eyes, seemingly concerned on other duty, swept down the gilded spaces of the room.

Then he walked away with Viola on his arm.

“I haven’t the least idea,” he said. “Funny looking object, any way. Might be anything.”

But though he straightway forgot his ward’s inquiry and his ambiguous reply, Viola remembered the former and could afford to ignore the latter, being by now more than enough a woman to know instinctively when scrutiny was male.

They had barely passed through the curtained doorway to the music room when the Comtesse de Villehardouin bustled into the saloon they had just left, the saloon where still, draped against an ornate settee, a strange, exhausted figure pondered their passing.

“Molly!”—the voice was singularly sweet, flutelike and gently penetrant—“spare me the fraction of a second!”

She hurried across the room and stood in mock humility at the sofa-arm.

“My lord commands.”

“Something too exquisite for our detestable age has crossed my vision. Who is she?”

“Bless the man, what does he mean? Describe!”

“A vision of grace and golden hair, Molly. A movement as lovely as a boy’s; a straight slim figure from an ancient frieze. Skirts—wherefore I compute it feminine; but such perfection as youths had in the great days, perfection that you women——”

She silenced him with a deft movement of her fan.

“Be quiet, you wretch! Was this adorable alone?”

He shook his languid head.

“On the arm of a father—the very thought is sacrilege, but I am forced to conclusions from conventional data—a father as unworthy as they always are. Dark and lean and dreadfully English!” At this moment Charles Plethern moved into distant sight. The man on the sofa seized his hostess’ wrist.

“There, Quickly! That’s the man!”

“Now I know,” she cried. “Your divinity is Charles Plethern’s ward. I’ll introduce you.”

As she darted away, her questioner turned the surname in his mind. “Plethern? It sounds familiar. Plethern?” Then he remembered and, had he been other than he was, would have raised his eyebrows in amused surprise. But such excesses were denied him. He dared not raise his eyebrows. They were lacquered.

With pleasurable nervousness Viola followed the Comtesse and her guardian to a ceremony of introduction. As they approached, the man on the sofa made no movement of greeting; only his eyes, deep-set and piercing, fixed themselves appraisingly upon the girl.

“Charles,” said the Comtesse, “I want you to know Lord Rockarvon. Stephen, this is Charles Plethern and this is his ward, Miss—” with a quick laugh—“Miss Viola is all I know!”

Rockarvon extended a long, white hand.

“Mr. Plethern, I am delighted to know you. We are neighbours in Gloucestershire, I believe. My wretched health—the same that keeps me seated in these ladies’ presence—forbids my coming home as I could wish. Perhaps Miss—er——” he paused for the name to be supplied, but Charles was silent. Before she knew it, Viola herself had spoken.

“My name is Marvell, Lord Rockarvon.”

He gave her a look of leering gratitude and bowed.

“Miss Marvell—a thousand thanks—may I offer you a coner of this admirable settee? If Mr. Plethern could bring that chair——?”

As the Comtesse, with an encouraging nod, turned and left them, Charles recovered from the first shock of presentation. It had been so completely unexpected, this strange encounter, but now he knew that he was face to face, and for the first time, with the most stubborn enemy of his ambitions.

“Thanks. I’ll stand,” he replied shortly. Then, with deliberate abruptness, “I understood you were bedridden, Lord Rockarvon. It is a surprise to find you visiting!”

“Visiting? Hardly that. I am an old lover of Molly’s, and one should respect the ashes of one’s past. They are often a very charming shade of grey. Indeed, you are almost right to call me bedridden—bed or sofa—they have so much in common!”

Charles saw the glance the speaker threw toward Viola, saw her perplexed but eager gravity; observed with rising distaste the elaborate make-up of the man before him. His lips tightened.

“It is gratifying to know that rumour exaggerates,” he said drily. “Viola, it is time to go. We are dining at eight, and it is seven now. If Lord Rockarvon will excuse us——?”

“Of course,” was the courteous reply. “Perhaps we may meet again. You are in Paris long?”

“We go south on Thursday night. I am afraid there is no time. Another occasion, maybe.”

Rockarvon gestured polite regret.

“Ah! I am unfortunate. I should like Miss Marvell to see my pictures. Number three, Rue des Montagnards. Au revoir, mademoiselle. You will permit ‘au revoir’?”

She blushed prettily and, rising, gave him her hand.

“Au revoir,” she said.

Charles bowed slightly, murmured a farewell and led her away. Rockarvon looked after them, and his eyes were thoughtful. Then with the tip of his tongue he moistened his painted lips.

§ 3

“What a funny person,” said Viola, as with her guardian she drove toward their hotel.

“Hardly funny,” retorted Charles crossly.

Viola noted his curtness and, teasingly, persisted.

“I thought he was very polite,” she ventured. “Why don’t you like him?”

Charles shuddered.

“Ugh!”

She laughed gaily.

“Poor old darling! He shan’t be bothered. Tell me one thing—is Rockarvon the valley next to Morvane?”

He nodded.

“And it belongs to this ‘hardly funny’ lord?”

He nodded again.

“What’s the house like?”

“A ruin, my dear, because its owner is too rotten and selfish to care for it.”

“Tut, tut!” Her voice was mockingly impertinent.

With an effort he controlled his temper and, after a moment, spoke gravely and slowly.

“Listen, Viola. Rockarvon is a bad man. It is no use my telling you why or how, because you wouldn’t understand. Just take my word for it, like a good girl. He’s a bad man and no decent person should have anything to do with him.”

“Then why does the admirable Molly ask him to her parties?”

The question came pert and instantly. Charles was discountenanced. Incapable of bluster, his anger yielded to appreciation of her quickness.

“Touché,” he said with a smile. “I confess I am surprised at Molly, and a little shocked.”

“We’ll tell her so to-morrow!” laughed Viola.

But there was no opportunity. Others were present in the box and, on the arrival at the discreet restaurant where the Comtesse was to show her mettle as supper-giver, the situation was sensationally transformed. Awaiting them in the private room, on a sofa specially arranged for his convenience, was Rockarvon himself. Charles saw the humour of the incident and banished indignation. He was not the man to spoil a pleasant evening by heroics. His greeting was almost affable.

“You are ubiquitous for an invalid!” he said. “I had no idea we should meet to-night.”

“Nor I, when we parted,” replied the other, with his queer, smooth smile. “But Molly told me of her little supper party and, as I wanted to see you both again, I asked to come.”

He turned to Viola:

“Mademoiselle, I kiss your hand. Did you enjoy Don Giovanni?”

“Very much, thank you. I have not heard it before.”

Rockarvon made her sit beside him, and began to talk of operas, their composers and their history. He talked vividly and with caustic humour; his knowledge of the by-ways of music seemed illimitable. Viola was soon under the spell of his exotic personality. At first she felt discomfort from his roving eyes. They stroked her shoulders, ran the length of her body, returned to probe the shadows and laces at her breast. Gradually, however, her embarrassment faded. With amusement and with interest she followed his conversation; with a certain pride in their evident approval, she let his glances go their unshrinking way.

Later in the evening he had a few words with Charles.

“I am so anxious,” he said, “to speak with you about my place over in England. Agents can tell one some things, but a neighbour—a friendly neighbour, if I do not presume too far—can be so vastly helpful. You see, I am an exile. England disgusts me. I must have beauty and I must have freedom. Inquisitive morality—that I cannot bear. You can tell me so many facts——”

“Not very many, I fear,” interrupted Charles. “Trespassers are prosecuted at Rockarvon.”

“No! Seriously? How utterly quaint! What barbarians my faithful followers must be! Trespassers indeed! I have forgotten the meaning of the word. But really—the place is becoming a white elephant. Perhaps you could advise me——”

Charles’ heart gave a leap of excitement. Was it possible? In that moment of dizzy hope, he forgot all his loathing for the creature before him, forgot the rouged cheeks, the eyebrows of black and gold, the finger-nails with their deep, gilded gleam. Only was he conscious of a sudden unimagined promise of success—success of the kind that alone had meaning.

But of this his expression showed no sign. Outwardly calm, he affected to consider the other’s words.

“Advise you? I am not sure of the value of any advice I could give. But I should be glad to be of any service within my power.”

“You do not leave till to-morrow night, I think? Are you free midday? Will you take luncheon with me? Miss Marvell, too, of course. We will look at my things and then you and I could have a few moments’ talk. I should be very grateful——”

Charles turned to Viola:

“What do you say, child? Lord Rockarvon suggests we lunch with him to-morrow. Did you promise Freda Thesiger to go and hear Pachmann, or was it merely a suggestion?”

“Merely a suggestion. I’d far rather see Lord Rockarvon’s pictures.”

“I am entranced, mademoiselle. Then I may count on you for one o’clock? I lunch early—foreign habits grow on one—you must forgive the cranks of a dépaysé!”

“Thank you,” she said. “It will be very nice.”

Next morning early she sent a note to Miss Palliser (the daughter of an English diplomat), pleading a final round of visits to her dressmakers. “We leave so early Friday,” she concluded, “and I must get the things finished off. Please don’t hate me for failing you. I’m dying to hear Pachmann, but duty, you know, and all that!” Miss Thesiger was displeased. She was left with a concert ticket on her hands. But then she may have been unreasonable. The whole affair was perhaps “merely a suggestion.”...

§ 4

The Rue des Montagnards was a short, narrow street lying between the Invalides and the Orleans station. It had the secluded insignificance proper to the remote dignity of its householders. The tall gates of Number Three were opened by a gigantic negro, who with exaggerated respect conducted his master’s guests across a gloomy little courtyard, bunched with laurels, to the front door of the hôtel. In a sombre, book-lined room, Rockarvon received his visitors.

Leaning heavily on a stick he moved to greet them. He was buttoned to the chin in a plain, close-fitting gown of dark grey cloth, fur-edged at skirt and wrists. His gaunt and painted face shone garishly in the subdued light. As he raised her fingers to his lips, Viola shivered involuntarily; he was so nearly the stuffed Jesuit of a no-popery bonfire she had once seen on the borders of Quebec. But, when he spoke, she began to fall once more under the spell of his sweet, quiet voice.

“Miss Marvell, you do me much honour. Mr. Plethern, you are welcome. Allow me to present the Marchesa Raffini—Laura—Miss Viola Marvell, Mr. Charles Plethern. They are my neighbours in Gloucestershire.”

A buxom lady, from the shadows near the fireplace, advanced with stately calm. Bowing acknowledgement of the introduction, she turned her slow gaze on Viola.

“Is this your first visit to Paris, Miss Marvell?”

The voice was deep and husky; its English clear and careful, with little beyond a hint of accent. As they exchanged courteous commonplace, Viola studied the plump, pale face under its picture hat, the plump hands restlessly playing with a thin, gold chain that lay across the expansive bosom. Each time the lady turned her eyes on Viola, the girl was struck anew with their veiled aloofness. Clearly the mind of the speaker was busy with matters more important and more distant than the trivial things her tongue was speaking.

A low burst of music stirred the stagnant air. Rockarvon, who had sunk on to a couch the moment that the ceremonies of presentation were completed, tapped sharply on the parquet-flooring with his stick.

“Laura,” he said, “please lead the way.”

As she followed the Marchesa, Viola observed two monstrous, white-robed figures surge from the darkness and go noiselessly toward the couch on which their master lay. She had barely taken her place for luncheon when the host, couch and all, was carried in by giant blacks and so placed that his head and shoulders neighboured her at table.

“You are surprised at my servants?” he said, with the queer, constricted smile that was all his maquillage allowed him. “They are very gentle and faithful—when I tell them to be—aren’t you, my children?”

The negroes grinned silently, rolling their eyes and goggling horribly at Viola.

“It is as well you don’t set up your household in Gloucestershire,” observed Charles with a smile. “The peasants would suspect you of magic and probably burn you out.”

Rockarvon gestured amused appreciation.

“So? Then I have another reason to shirk my obligations.” Turning to Viola, he asked if she had everything she wanted.

“You like foie gras? A fragment more? No? Ah, here is the wine. Giton, some wine for the signorina! It is very light, this wine. I hope Mr. Plethern will excuse a light, sweet wine? Ladies prefer it and my own wretched digestion—you understand?”

An olive-skinned youth poured the dark, amber wine into tall twisted glasses. The beauty of the boy was very striking, and for a moment his oval face and long straight nose reminded Viola of Daniel. At a second glance, however, she saw that the lips were fuller and coarser and that the eyes narrowed at the corners into lines of cunning that gave oddly a look of knowledge to the smooth young face.

Throughout the meal the Marchesa ate steadily and in silence. Her flow of flat and meaningless talk seemed to have dried up or suddenly to have been cut off. She hardly raised her eyes from the table and, when not actually engaged with fork or bread, her white, round hands fidgeted, fidgeted with the golden chain. Rockarvon, on the other hand, talked easily and well. If he found Charles Plethern unresponsive he did not show it, but passed skilfully from one subject to another, often amusing, never oppressively informative.

Viola ventured admiring comment on the room in which they sat, praising the unpolished wood-work of the walls, that bore no pictures to break the long, soaring lines of their tall panelling. She inquired period and origin of the branched candelabra that flanked the open hearth.

“Mademoiselle delights me as much by her taste as by the compliment she pays to mine,” Rockarvon said. “My pictures are all elsewhere. It would be a shame to blotch the lovely grain of these panels with paintings. You agree? I knew you would. Mr. Plethern, Miss Marvell and I agree on everything.”

Charles threw a quick glance at Viola, and a tiny frown flickered between his eyes. When he spoke, however, he was suave and genial as ever.

“The wood itself is an unusual colour. Might one inquire——?”

“It is a particular kind of Spanish walnut. I wanted something with a flush of red in its greyness.”

“You are an amateur of house-decoration?”

“Of house-decoration? Well, I suppose I am—among other things. I think I love nothing but beauty”—again those swift piercing eyes rested on Viola—“beauty in one form or another.... It amuses me to gather lovely things. On the whole, I prefer to be called an amateur of beauty ... and sensation. It gives one more scope, doesn’t it?”

When at last luncheon was over, the host issued a command to the Marchesa. They were the first words he had spoken to her, since bidding her lead the way to table.

“Laura,” he said, “take Miss Marvell to the long gallery and show her the pictures. Giton will bring some coffee and liqueurs. Mr. Plethern and I will follow in a little while.”

The Marchesa rose obediently and, without a sound, sailed solemnly toward the door. Viola followed. As she went, she felt that Rockarvon’s eyes were on her, relishing her movements, appraising the lithe lines of her figure. So strong was the feeling that, before she knew it, she had turned at the doorway and looked back. Her guardian was lighting a cigarette and so placed that he could not see her. Relentlessly the strange eyes of the earl caught hers and held them. As though rooted to the threshold, she paused an instant, giving him look for look. Then, at an almost imperceptible gesture of his hand, the spell was broken; easily she swung about and left the room.

When they were alone:

“And now for our little talk, Mr. Plethern,” said Rockarvon.

Charles shifted in his seat. Throughout luncheon discomfort had grown upon him. He asked himself what folly had possessed him to come to this fantastic creature’s home. His usual loquacity had deserted him; unaccustomed to situations he could not dominate, he suffered the more from the still, scented air of this luxurious house, from the sinister finish of his host’s mannered grace. Now, directly addressed, he shifted in his seat and struggled to rally his faculties.

“You wanted to ask about your house in Gloucestershire?” he muttered.

“I did,” replied the earl, “and yet I did not. Rather I wanted to make you a proposition.”

He paused and Charles felt the blood coursing from his heart. At the spur of ambition, all uneasiness left him. This man might be a nightmare figure, but even nightmares bringing gifts—and such gifts—were better than dreamless sleep.

“A proposition?”

“I will be quite frank with you, Plethern. I know pretty well that you want that land of mine as badly as a man ever wanted anything. Though I live out of the world, I have my sources of information, and I can understand that Rockarvon, added to what I may be permitted to call “the greater Morvane,” would make a very pretty stretch of solid property. Well, Rockarvon is no good to me, except for what I can get for it. Romantic nonsense about keeping a family skeleton, because once the family lived with it in the cupboard, has no weight with me. Further, between you and me, I shouldn’t be sorry to annoy my heir. I don’t know him, but I believe he’s the usual pink-faced, beef-eating Englishman. Have you ever felt the desire to annoy your heir?”

Charles smiled.

“I haven’t one,” he said, “not an official one—yet.”

“Yet? You think of marrying?”

“Good heavens, no!” said Charles crossly. “I didn’t mean that at all! But please go on about Rockarvon.”

“Ah, yes, Rockarvon! Is it true what they tell me about your wishes?”

“More or less.” Charles was cautious now and spoke with an indifference so studied that the earl immediately took it at its real value. “More or less. I admit that the two estates would join nicely.”

“Very nicely,” said the other softly. “Very nicely indeed.”

There was a brief silence. Charles felt his uneasy restlessness returning. Brusquely he sought to put a point to the discussion.

“What is the proposition?” he demanded a little roughly.

“The proposition,” said Rockarvon slowly, “is that I will exchange my Gloucestershire lands for your Viola.”

For a moment Charles did not take in the significance of the words. Then he stood up.

“If I were not your guest, Lord Rockarvon——” he began.

The earl waved an impatient hand.

“Sit down, man! Don’t be heroic. And don’t jump to conclusions. Perhaps you will think calmly for a moment and then tell me why my suggestion is so unacceptable to you.”

“Unacceptable!” cried Charles, and his voice was choked with fury. “Unacceptable! God, man, do you think I’m a pimp?”

Rockarvon gave a low, sneering laugh.

“Bon Dieu, these English! Really, Plethern, how your mind runs to melodrama! One asks oneself how English maidens ever contrive to marry, if parents and guardians receive suitors so violently.”

Charles mastered his quivering nerves and with them his temper. He was now cold and contemptuous, free of the baleful fog that had clouded his understanding since first he set foot under Rockarvon’s roof.

“I forgot myself,” he said. “You must excuse me. Perhaps you would explain in greater detail the honour you propose to do us.”

The earl seemed resentful of the other’s recovered ease of manner. He spoke sulkily.

“I hardly think, after so insulting a welcome——”

“Come, come,” said Charles briskly. “I have asked pardon for my breach of manners. You will realize that having gone so far, this thing must go a little farther. You wish to exchange Rockarvon for my ward. On what basis?”

“On a basis of legality and propriety,” replied the earl.

“You want to marry the girl?”

“If I marry your Viola,” parried the earl in his smoothest voice, “I will settle Rockarvon on her. It remains for you to leave her Morvane, so that ultimately the estates may be joined and your ambition realized. I take it you are not so selfish as to wish yourself to own the double property?”

“You want to marry Viola,” repeated Charles reflectively. Insolently he looked the other up and down, seeking only to make evident his contempt for the rotten emaciation of the limp, grey figure. “You!” Then, after a moment’s pause: “I am sorry, Lord Rockarvon. Your proposal is impossible.”

With a slight shrug, the earl pressed a bell at his side:

“Very well,” he said indifferently. “My delightful valley and its surrounding fields remain with the house of Clavering—until I find something else I want. Shall we join the ladies?”

But Charles was in no mood for further polite conversation.

“I think not,” he said harshly. “If one of your men could find a cab...?”

To the negroes, who jointly answered their master’s bell, the earl muttered the one word:

“Cab!”

He made no other sign of having heard Charles’ remark, nor did he glance in his guest’s direction or speak another word to him. When one of the huge, black servants returned and intimated that a cab was at the door, Rockarvon still lolled immobile on his sofa.

“Tell the young lady,” he said.

The negro bowed and again disappeared. In a few moments Charles heard his ward’s steps on the marble floor of the vestibule. He paused a moment by the couch.

“I have to thank you for your hospitality,” he said stiffly. “I regret that——”

But the earl, with an absent gesture of the hand, brushed the formality aside. Head sunk on breast, he remained staring at the fire. Not by word, look, nor movement did he show consciousness of his guests’ departure.

In the cab Viola questioned her guardian with anxious curiosity.

“What happened, Charles? Why are we running away like this? Why didn’t you come upstairs? I was longing for you. That fat Marchesa would have bored me to lunacy in another ten minutes. And I wanted to see that charming man again.”

“Not a very charming man, Viola,” said Charles quietly.

“I think he is very charming,” she insisted pettishly. “He was very polite to me and gave us a lovely lunch, and his house is beautiful. If only you’d have come upstairs, we could have seen more of his things. There were a few dingy pictures in the gallery, but I soon got through with them and had to sit listening to that ghastly old woman drivelling on and on....”

Charles knew enough not to attempt debate or explanation.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said placably. “We had an argument and didn’t agree, and to stay longer would have been intolerably awkward.”

“I don’t see why I should suffer for your horrid old argument!” she complained. “Did he ask us again? We shall be in Paris on our way home, shan’t we? Can’t we go then?”

Charles did not reply. Foolishly she clung to her grievance, heedless of danger signals.

“Charles, you must answer me! When can we see Lord Rockarvon again?”

He turned on her, suddenly furious.

“Never!” he shouted, and the old cab rocked with the violence of his rage. Startled, scared and (in her heart of hearts) a little delighted with his roughness, she shrank into her corner. For the remainder of the drive, neither spoke a word. The same evening, by the night train, they left for Rome.