Lavinia realized that her sister looked badly; in the unsparing blaze of midday the wrinkles about her eyes were apparent, and they had multiplied. Although it was past the first of June, Gheta was wearing a linen suit of last year; and--as her maid unpacked--Lavinia saw the familiar pink tulle and the lavender gown with the gold velvet buttons. “Your dressmaker is very late,” she observed thoughtlessly. A slow flush spread over the other's countenance; she did not reply immediately and Lavinia would have given a great deal to unsay her period. “It isn't that,” Gheta finally explained; “the family find that I am too expensive. You see, I haven't justified their hopes and they have been cutting down.” Her voice was thin, metallic; her features had sharpened like folded paper creased between the fingers. “It's very good form here,” she went on, dancing about her room. It was hardly more than a marble gallery, the peristyle choked with flowering bushes, camellias and althea and hibiscus, barely furnished, and filled with drifting perfumes and the savor of the sea. “What a shame that these things must be got at a price!” Lavinia glanced at her sharply; until the present moment that would have expressed her own attitude, but said by Gheta it seemed a little crude. It was, anyhow, painfully obvious, and she had no intention of showing Gheta the true state of her being. “Isn't that so of everything--worth having?” she asked, adding the latter purely as a counter. The elder drew up her fine shoulders. “That's very courageous of you,” she admitted--“especially since everybody knew your opinion of Orsi. Heaven knows you made no effort to disguise your feeling to others.” Lavinia smiled calmly; Cesare was really very thoughtful, and she said so. Gheta replied at a sudden tangent: “Mochales has been a great nuisance.” Lavinia was gazing through an opening in the leaves at the sparkling blue plane of the bay. She made no movement, aware of her sister's unsparing curiosity turned upon her, and only said: “Really?” “Spaniards are so tempestuous,” Gheta continued; “he's been whispering a hundred mad schemes in my ear. He gave up an important engagement in Madrid rather than leave Florence. I have been almost stirred by him, he is so slender and handsome. “Simply every woman--except perhaps me--is in love with him.” “There's no danger of your loving any one besides yourself.” “I saw him the day before I left; told him where I was going. Then I had to beg him not to take the same train. He said he was going to Naples, anyhow, to sail from there for Spain. He will be at the Grand Hotel and I gave him permission to see me here once.” Lavinia revolved slowly. “Why not? He turned my head round at least twice.” She moved toward the door. “Ring whenever you like,” she said; “there are servants for everything.”