“I believe you are at the Grand Hotel?” he addressed the other man. “Until I hear from you.” “To-morrow----” All the heat had apparently evaporated from their words; they spoke with a perfunctory politeness. Cesare Orsi said: “I will order the launch.” In a few minutes the palpitations of the steam died in the direction of Naples. VII Lavinia followed her husband to their rooms, where he sat smoking one of his long black cigars. He was pale; his brow was wet and his collar wilted. She stood beside him and he patted her arm. “Everything is in order,” he assured her. A species of blundering tenderness for him possessed her; an unexpected throb of her being startled and robbed her of words. He mistook her continued silence. “All I have is yours,” he explained; “it is your right. I can see now that--that my money was all I had to offer you. The only thing of value I possess. I should have realized that a girl, charming like yourself, couldn't care for a mound of fat.” Her tenderness rose till it choked in her throat, blurred what she had to say. “Cesare,” she told him, “Gheta was right; at one time I was in love with Mochales.” He turned with a startled exclamation; but she silenced him. “He was, it seemed, all that a girl might admire--dark and mysterious and handsome. He was romantic. I demanded nothing else then; now something has happened that I don't altogether understand, but it has changed everything for me. Cesare, your money never made any difference in my feeling for you--it didn't before and it doesn't to-night--” She hesitated and blushed painfully, awkwardly. The cigar fell from his hand and he rose, eagerly facing her. “Lavinia,” he asked, “is it possible--do you mean that you care the least about me?” “It must be that, Cesare, because I am so terribly afraid.” Later he admitted ruefully: “But no man should resemble, as I do, a great oyster. I shall pay very dearly for my laziness.” “You are not going to fight Mochales!” she protested. “It would be insanity.” “Insanity,” he agreed promptly. “Yet I can't permit myself to be the target for vile tongues.” Lavinia abruptly left him and hurried to her sister's room. The door was locked; she knocked, but got no response. “Gheta,” she called, low and urgently, “open at once! Your plans have gone dreadfully wrong. Gheta!” she said more sharply into the answering silence. “Cesare has had a terrific argument with Mochales, and worse may follow. Open!” There was still no answer, and suddenly she beat upon the door with her fists. “Liar!” she cried thinly through the wood. “Liar! You bitter old stick! I'll make you eat that necklace, pearl for pearl, sorrow for sorrow!” A feeling of impotence overwhelmed her at the implacable stillness that succeeded her hysterical outburst. She stood with a pounding heart, and clasped straining fingers.