“Oh, but I adore London,” she exclaimed, “and your London is not sunless. See how the sun is shining on the river this afternoon; not as it shines on the lagoons in May, I grant you, but it is a very pretty piccolo sole.”
“And la Zia,” asked Vansittart; “she is well, I hope?”
“She is more than well. She is getting fat. Oh, so fat. She is as happy as the day is long. She loves your London, the King’s Road most of all. At night there are barrows, fish, vegetables, everything. She can do her marketing by lamplight, and the streets are almost as full and as gay as the Merceria. La Zia was never so happy in all her life as she is in London. She never had so much to eat.”
They were near Saltero’s Mansion by this time.
“You will come in and let me make you some tea, won’t you?” pleaded Lisa.
“Not this afternoon, Si’ora. I wanted to see you, to know that all was going well with you. Having done that, I must go back to the West End to—to keep an appointment.”
He was thinking that possibly Eve’s “trying on” would be finished in time for him to snatch half an hour’s tête-à-tête in one of the Bruton Street drawing-rooms, before she dressed for dinner. There were three drawing-rooms, in a diminishing perspective, dwindling almost to a point, the third and inner room too small to serve any purpose but flirtation, and here the lovers could usually find seclusion.
Lisa pouted and looked unhappy.
“You might stay and take tea with me,” she said; “la Zia will be home soon.”
“La Zia is out, then?”
“Yes; she has taken Paolo to Battersea Park for the afternoon. The rehearsal for the new opera keeps me all day long, and la Zia takes the boy for his daily walk; but it is past five, and they will be home as soon as I am, I dare say.”
“I will come this way again in a week or so, Si’ora.”
“You are very unkind,” protested Lisa, in her impulsive way; and then, with one of those sudden changes which so well became her childish beauty, she exclaimed, “No, no; forgive me; you are always kind—kind, kindest of men. Promise you will come again soon.”
“I promise,” he said, stopping short and offering his hand.
“Then I’ll walk back just a little piece of way with you—only as far as the big house with the swans.”
Lisa’s company on Cheyne Walk was an honour which Vansittart would have gladly escaped. She was too pretty and too peculiar-looking not to attract notice; and there was the tea-party in Tite Street, with its little crowd of worldlings, any of whom would be curious as to his companion, should he by chance be seen in this society. He did not want to be rude, for the lace-girl from Burano was a creature of strong feelings, and was easily wounded.
“I am in a desperate hurry, Si’ora.”
“You were not in a hurry when I overtook you just now. You were walking slowly. You cannot walk faster than I. At Burano I never used to walk. I always ran.”
“Poverina! How quickly you must have used up your island.”
“Yes; it was like a prison. I used to watch the painted sails of the fishing-boats, and long for them to carry me away to any place different from that island, where I knew every face and every paving-stone. That is why I love your London, in spite of fogs and grey skies. It is so big, so big.”
She stopped, with clasped hands and flashing eyes. A street boy wheeled round to look at her, and gave a low whistle of admiring surprise; and at the same instant Sefton turned a street corner, came across the road, and passed close to Vansittart and his companion.
Of all men living, this man was the last whom Vansittart would have cared to meet under such conditions.
XV
“Love Should Be Absolute Love”
Sefton lifted his hat and passed quickly. Vansittart stood mutely watching his retreating figure, till it was lost among other figures moving to and fro along the Embankment. An empty hansom came creeping by the curb while he stood watching.
“Here is a cab which will just do for me, Signorina,” he said. “Goodbye. I’ll see you on one of your maestro’s days, so that I may hear his opinion of your chances.”
“He comes on Tuesdays and Saturdays, from three to four. Who is that gentleman who bowed to you? A friend?”
“No; only an acquaintance. Goodbye.”
“How vexed you look! Are you ashamed of being seen with me?”
“No, child, no; only that man happens to be one of my particular aversions. A rivederci. Stay! I will take you to your door. The cab can follow.”
It had occurred to him in a moment that Sefton was capable of turning and pursuing Lisa if he left her unprotected. He was just the kind of man, Vansittart thought, who, out of sheer devilry, would try to discover the name and antecedents of this lovely stranger. He had a deep-rooted distrust of Wilfred Sefton, which led him to anticipate evil.
He walked with Lisa to Saltero’s Mansion, and saw her vanish under the lofty Queen Anne portico, and then he turned and walked slowly back as far as Tite Street, with the cab following him. So far there was no sign of Sefton, who might, therefore, be supposed to have continued his way Londonwards; but the rencontre had been a shock to Vansittart’s nerves, and had set him thinking seriously upon the danger of his relations
