The house was quaint and pretty, and being entirely furnished with Japaneseries was a very fascinating toy, if not altogether the most commodious thing in the way of houses. For party-giving it was delightful, for less than a hundred people choked every inch of space in rooms and staircase, and suggested a tremendous reception: so that the smallest of Mrs. Hawberk’s parties seemed a crush.
Sefton arriving at half-past ten, only half an hour after the time on Mrs. Hawberk’s card, found the drawing-rooms blocked with people, mostly standing, and could see no more of Signora Vivanti than if she had been on the other side of the river; but the people in the doorway were talking about her, and their talk informed him that she was somewhere in the innermost angle of the back drawing-room, behind the grand piano, and that she was going to sing.
Then there came an authoritative “Silence, please,” from Hawberk, followed by a sudden hush as of sentences broken off in the middle, and anon a firm hand played the symphony to Sullivan’s Orpheus, and the grand mezzo soprano voice rolled out the grand Shakespearean words set to noble music. The choice of the song was a delicate compliment to Hawberk’s master in art, who was among Mrs. Hawberk’s guests.
The Venetian accent was still present in Lisa’s pronunciation, but her English had improved as much as her vocalization, under Hawberk’s training. He had taken extraordinary pains with this particular song, and every note rang out clear as crystal, pure as thrice-refined gold. The composer’s “Brava, bravissima!” was heard amidst the applause that followed the song.
Sefton elbowed his way through the crowd—as politely as was consistent with a determination to reach a given point—and contrived to mingle with the group about the singer. She was standing by the piano in a careless attitude, dressed in a black velvet gown, which set off the yellowish whiteness of her shoulders and full round throat. Clasped round that statuesque throat, she wore a collet necklace of diamonds, splendid in size and colour, a necklace which could not have been bought for less than six or seven hundred pounds.
“So,” thought Sefton. “Those diamonds don’t quite come into Hawberk’s notion of the lady’s character.”
Mr. Sefton did not know that, after the manner of Venetian women, Lisa looked upon jewellery as an investment, and that nearly all her professional earnings since her début were represented by the diamonds she wore round her neck. She and la Zia were able to live on so little, and it was such a pleasure to them to save, first to gloat over the golden sovereigns, and then to change them into precious stones. There was such a delightful feeling in being able to wear one’s fortune round one’s neck.
Mr. Hawberk had accompanied the singer, and he was still sitting at the piano, when Sefton’s eager face reminded him of his promise.
“Signora, allow me to introduce another of your English admirers. Mr. Sefton, a connoisseur in the way of music, and a cosmopolitan in the way of speech.”
Lisa turned smilingly to the stranger. “You speak Italian,” she said in her own language, and Sefton replying in very good Tuscan, they were soon on easy terms; and presently he had the delight of taking her down to the supper-room, where there was a long narrow table loaded with delicacies, and a perpetual flow of champagne.
Lisa enjoyed herself here as frankly as she had enjoyed herself at the sign of the Black Hat, in the Piazza di San Marco. She was the same unsophisticated Lisa still, in the matter of quails and lobster mayonnaise, creams and jellies. She stood at the table and eat all the good things that Sefton brought her, and drank three or four glasses of champagne with jovial unconcern, and talked of the people and the gowns they were wearing in her soft southern tongue, secure of not being understood, though Sefton warned her occasionally that there might be other people in the room besides themselves who knew the language of Dante and Boccaccio.
Never had he talked to any beautiful woman who was so thoroughly unsophisticated; and that somewhat plebeian nature had a curious charm for him. He could understand Vansittart’s infatuation for such a woman, but could not understand his giving her up for the sake of Eve Marchant, whose charms as compared with Lisa’s were
“As moonlight unto sunlight, or as water unto wine.”
He hoped to discover all the history of that intrigue by-and-by, seeing how freely Lisa talked of herself to an acquaintance of an hour. He meant to follow up that acquaintance with all the earnestness of which he was capable.
“There are no finer diamonds in the room than your necklace,” he said, when she had been praising an ancient dowager’s jewels, gems whose beauty was not enhanced by a neck that looked as if its bony structure had been covered with one of the family parchments.
“Do you really like them?” asked Lisa, with a flashing smile.
“She doesn’t even blush for her spoil,” thought Sefton.
“I’m so glad you think them good,” continued Lisa. “They are all my fortune. The jeweller told me I should never repent buying them.”
“What, Signora, did you buy them? I thought they were the offering of some devoted admirer.”
“Do you suppose I would accept such a gift from anyone except—except somebody I cared for?” she exclaimed indignantly. “A man sent me a diamond bracelet one night at the theatre—I found it in my dressing-room when I arrived—with his card. I sent it back next morning—or at least Zinco sent it back for me.”
“And I dare say you have even forgotten the man’s name?” said Sefton.
“Yes. Your English names are very ugly, and very difficult
