It is a common thing in Italy to hear of men
of the lower classes speak of a woman's plainness with brutality, with a
manner almost of personal offence. They often shrink from personal
ugliness as Englishmen seldom do, like children shrinking from something
abnormal--a frightening dwarf, a spectre.
Now that Lady Holme had reached the "hiding-place" for which she had
longed, she resolved to be brutal with herself. Till now she had almost
perpetually concealed her disfigured face. Even her servants had not seen
it. But in this lonely house, among these strangers, she knew that the
inevitable moment was come when she must begin the new life, the terrible
life that was henceforth to be hers. In her bedroom she took off her hat
and veil, and without glancing into the glass she came downstairs. In the
hall she met the butler. She saw him start.
"Can I have tea?" she said, looking at him steadily.
"Yes, signora," he answered, looking down.
"In the piazza, please."
She went out through the open door into the piazza. The boy who had sung
in the boat was there, watering some geraniums in pots. As she came out
he glanced up curiously, at the same time pulling off his hat. When he
saw her his mouth gaped, and an expression of pitiless repulsion came
into his eyes. It died out almost instantaneously, and he smiled and
began to speak about the flowers. But Lady Holme had received her
education.
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