Clara kept up an incessant chatter, bending, every other
minute, towards her companion to press a kiss on the corner of his
mouth, screening the furtive caress behind a fan of white feathers which
gave out a delicate odour of 'white rose.' But Andrea appeared not to
hear her, and even her caress only drew from him a slight smile.
'_Che pensi?_' she asked, pronouncing the Italian words with a certain
hesitation which was very taking.
'Nothing,' returned Andrea, taking up one of her ungloved hands and
examining the rings.
_'Chi lo sa!_' she sighed, throwing a vast amount of expression into
these three words, which foreign women pick up at once, because they
imagine that they contain all the pensive melancholy of Italian love.
'_Chi lo sa!_'
With a sudden change of humour, Andrea kissed her on the ear, slipped an
arm round her waist and proceeded to say a host of foolish things to
her. The Corso was very lively, the shop windows resplendent,
newspaper-vendors yelled, public and private vehicles crossed the path
of their carriage; all the stir and animation of Roman evening life was
in full swing from the Piazza Colonna to the Piazza di Venezia.
It was ten minutes past eight by the time they reached Doney's. The
other guests were already there. Andrea Sperelli greeted the assembled
company, and taking Clara Green by the hand--
'This,' he said, 'is Miss Clara Green, _ancilla Domini, Sibylla
palmifera, candida puella_.
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