She stopped him with an impatient gesture, wondering what Mochales was saying to Gheta. A possibility suddenly filled her with dread--it was evident that the Spaniard was growing hourly more absorbed in Gheta, and the latter might----Lavinia could not support the possibility of Abrego y Mochales married to her sister. But, she reassured herself, there was little danger of that--Gheta would never make a sacrifice for emotion; she would be sure of the comfortable material thing, and now more than ever. Anna Mantegazza moved to a piano, which, in the obscurity, she began to play. The notes rose deliberate and melodious. Gheta Sanviano told Orsi: “That's Iris. Do you remember, we heard it at the Pergola in the winter?” “Do go over to her,” Lavinia whispered. He rose heavily and went to Gheta's side, and Lavinia waited expectantly for Mochales to change too. The Spaniard shifted, but it was toward the piano, where he stood with the rosy reflection of his cigarette on a moody countenance. It was Pier Mantegazza who sat beside her, with a quizzical expression on his long gray visage. He said something to her in Latin, which she only partly understood, but which alluded to the changing of water into wine. “I am a subject of jest,” he continued in Italian, “because I prefer water.” She smiled with polite vacuity, wondering what he meant. “You always satisfied me, Lavinia, with your dark smooth plait and white simplicity; you were cool and refreshing. Now they have made you only disturbing. I suppose it was inevitable, and with you the change will be temporary.” “I'll never let my hair down again,” she retorted. “I've settled that with Gheta. Mother didn't care, really.” She was annoyed by the implied criticism, his entire lack of response to her new being. He had grown blind staring at his stupid old coins. A step sounded behind her; she turned hopefully, but it was only Cesare Orsi. “The others have gone outside,” he told her, and she noticed that the piano had stopped. Mantegazza rose and bowed in mock serious formality, at which Lavinia shrugged an impatient shoulder and walked with Orsi across the room and out upon the terrace. Florence had sunk into a dark chasm of night, except for the curving double row of lights that marked the Lungarno and the indifferent illumination of a few principal squares. The stars seemed big and near in deep blue space. Orsi was standing very close to her, and she moved away; but he followed. “Lavinia,” he muttered, and suddenly his arm was about her waist. She leaned back, pushing with both hands against his chest; but he swept her irresistibly up to him and kissed her clumsily. A cold rage possessed her. She stopped struggling; yet there was no need to continue--he released her immediately and opened a stammering apology.