His moustache, which was harsh and
black and cut evenly like the bristles of a brush, shadowed a coarse and
sardonic mouth. He appeared to be about forty, or rather more. In his
whole appearance there was something disagreeably hybrid and morose,
that indefinable air of viciousness which belongs to the later
generations of bastard races brought up in the midst of moral disorder.
'Look, Delfina--orange trees, all in flower!' exclaimed Donna Maria,
stretching out her hand to pluck a spray as they passed.
Near Schifanoja, the road lay between orange groves, the trees being so
high that they afforded a pleasant shade, through which the sea-breeze
sighed and fluttered, so laden with perfume that one might almost have
quaffed it like a draught of cool water.
Delfina was kneeling on the carriage seat and leaned out to catch at the
branches. Her mother wound an arm about her to keep her from falling
out.
'Take care! Take care! You will tumble--wait a moment till I untie my
veil. Would you mind helping me, Francesca?'
She bent her head towards her friend to let her unfasten the veil from
her hat, and in doing so the bouquet of roses fell at her feet. Andrea
promptly picked them up, and as he rose from his stooping position, he
at last saw her whole face uncovered.
It was an oval face, perhaps the least trifle too long, but hardly worth
mentioning--that aristocratic oval which the most graceful portrait
painters of the fifteenth century were rather fond of exaggerating.
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