"
"Ah!"
"An old Italian lady, very rich, owned it, but never lived there. She
recently died, and her heir consented to sell it to me."
"Well, I should like to see it in the flesh--or the bricks and mortar.
But it's not a place to be alone in," repeated Carey. "It wants a woman
if ever a house did."
"What sort of woman?"
Sir Donald had sat down again on the chair opposite, and was looking with
his exhausted eyes through the smoke of the cigars at Carey.
"A fair woman, a woman with a white face, a slim woman with eyes that are
cords to draw men to her and bind them to her, and a voice that can sing
them into the islands of the sirens."
"Are there such women in a world that has forgotten Ulysses?"
"Don't you know it?"
He rolled the photograph round the piece of wood and laid it on a table.
"I can only think of one who at all answers to your description."
"The one of whom I was thinking."
"Lady Holme?"
"Of course."
"Don't you think she would be dreadfully bored in Casa Felice?"
"Horribly, horribly. Unless--"
"Unless?"
"Who knows what? But there's very often an unless hanging about, like a
man at a street corner, that--" He broke off, then added abruptly,
"Invite me to Casa Felice some day."
"I do."
"When will you be going there?"
"As soon as the London season is over. Some time in August. Will you come
then?"
"The house is ready for you?"
"It will be.
Pages:
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112