‘When Frenchmen are nice they are very nice,’ said Mrs. Copley; ‘but when they are not–’ Words failed her, and she picked up her embroidery again.
At the mid-day breakfast Marcia announced rather hopefully that she did not think the Roystons would come.
‘Why not?’ her aunt inquired.
‘They’ve lost their maid, and there won’t be anybody to help them pack. If they come out to the villa to-night they won’t be ready to start for Perugia on Wednesday. Besides, Mrs. Royston never likes to do anything on the spur of the moment. She likes to plan her programme a week ahead and stick to it. Oh, I know they won’t come,’ she added with a laugh. ‘M. Benoit will be the only guest, after all.’
‘And I’ve ordered dinner for eight!’ said Mrs. Copley, pathetically. ‘I am thinking of driving over to the contessa’s this afternoon—I might invite her to join us.’
‘Oh, no, Aunt Katherine! Please, not to-day. If the Roystons should come, there’ll be a big enough party without her; and, anyway, she wouldn’t be particularly interested—Mr. Sybert isn’t here.’
‘The contessa comes to see us, not Mr. Sybert,’ Mrs. Copley returned, with a touch of asperity.
Marcia smiled into her cup of chocolate and said nothing.
While the sun was sunk in its noonday torpor, she stood by her window, gazing absently off toward the old monastery, engaged in a last valiant struggle to make up her mind. She finally turned away with an impatient shrug which banished Paul Dessart and his importunities to the bottom of the Dead Sea. There was no use in bothering any more about it now; Mrs. Royston’s mind at least was no weathercock. Marcia clung tenaciously to the hope that they would not come.
It was a beautiful afternoon, fresh and sparkling from the week of rain, and she suddenly decided upon a horseback ride to brush from her mind all bothersome questions. She got out her riding-habit and jerked the bell-rope with a force which set bells jangling wildly through the house, and brought Granton as nearly on a run as was consonant with her dignity and years.
‘It’s nothing serious,’ Marcia laughed in response to the maid’s anxious face; ‘I just made up my mind to go for a ride, and in the first flush of energy I rang louder than I meant. It’s a great thing, Granton, to get your mind made up about even so unimportant a matter as a horseback ride.’
‘Yes, miss,’ Granton agreed somewhat vaguely as she knelt down to help with a boot.
‘How in the world do those soldiers in the King’s guard ever get their boots on?’ Marcia asked.
‘I don’t know, miss,’ said Granton, patiently.
Marcia laughed. ‘Send word to the stables for Angelo to bring the horses in fifteen minutes. I’m going to take a long ride, and I must start immediately.’
‘Very well, miss.’
‘Immediately,’ Marcia called after her. In dealing with Angelo reiteration was necessary. He was an Italian, and he had still to learn the value of time.
She tied her stock before the glass in a very mannish fashion, adjusted her hat—with the least perceptible tilt—and catching up her whip and gloves, started out gaily, humming a snatch of a very much reiterated Neapolitan street song.
It ended in a series of trills; she did not know the words. At the head of the stairs she met Granton returning. Granton stood primly expressionless, waiting patiently for her to have done before venturing to speak.
Marcia completed her measure and broke off with a laugh. ‘Well, Granton, what’s the matter?’
‘Angelo has taken Master Gerald’s pony to Palestrina to be shod and both of the carriages are to be used, so the other men will be needed for them, and there isn’t any one left to ride with you.’
Marcia’s smile changed to a frown. ‘How stupid! Angelo has no business to go off without saying anything.’
‘Mr. Copley left orders for him to have the pony shod.’
‘He’s not Mr. Copley’s groom; he’s mine.’
‘Yes, miss,’ said Granton.
Marcia went on slowly downstairs, her frown gathering volume as she proceeded. She wished to take a horseback ride, and she wished nothing else for the moment. She foresaw that her aunt would propose that she ride into Tivoli and take tea with the contessa. If there was one thing she hated, it was to ride at a steady jog-trot beside the carriage; and if there was a second thing, it was to take tea with the contessa.
She heard Mrs. Copley’s and Gerald’s voices in the salon and she advanced to the doorway.
‘Aunt Katherine! I’m furious! This is the first time in four days that it has stopped raining long enough for me to go out, and I’m dying to take a gallop in the country. That miserable Angelo has gone off with Gerald’s pony, and there isn’t another man on the place that can go with me. You needn’t propose my riding into Tivoli to take tea with the contessa, for I won’t do it.’
She delivered this outburst from the threshold, and as she advanced into the room she was slightly disconcerted to see Laurence Sybert lazily pulling himself from a chair to greet her—if she ever showed in a particularly bad light, Sybert was sure to be at hand. He bowed, his face politely grave, but there was the provoking suggestion of a smile not far below the surface; and as she looked at him Marcia had the uncomfortable feeling that her own face was growing red.
‘I’m sorry about Angelo, my dear,’ said Mrs. Copley. ‘I didn’t know that you wanted to ride this afternoon. But here is Mr. Sybert who has come out to see your uncle, and your uncle won’t be back till evening. I’m sure he will be glad to go with you.’
Marcia glanced back at her aunt with an expression which said, ‘Oh, Aunt Katherine, wait till I get you alone!’
‘Certainly, Miss Marcia, I should be delighted to fill the recreant Angelo’s place,’ he affirmed, but in a tone which to her ear did not express any undue eagerness.
‘Thank you, Mr. Sybert,’ she smiled sweetly; ‘you are very kind, but I shouldn’t think of troubling you. I know that Aunt Katherine would like to have you go with her to call on the contessa.’
‘If you will permit it. Miss Marcia, I will ride with you instead; for though I should be happy to call on Contessa Torrenieri with Mrs. Copley, I have just driven out from Tivoli, and by way of change I should prefer not driving back.’
‘It’s awfully kind of you to offer, but I don’t really want to ride. I was just cross with Angelo for going off without saying anything.’
‘Marcia,’ remonstrated Mrs. Copley, ‘that doesn’t sound polite.’
Sybert laughed. ‘There is nothing, Miss Marcia,’ he declared, ‘that would give me more pleasure this afternoon than a gallop with you; and with your permission–’ he touched the bell.
Marcia shrugged her shoulders and gave the order as Pietro appeared.
‘Send word to the stables for Kentucky Lil and Triumvirate to be saddled at once.’
‘You may go upstairs and borrow as much of Howard’s wardrobe as you wish,’ said Mrs. Copley. ‘I dare say you did not come prepared to play the part of groom.’
‘I’ll try not to get them muddier than necessary,’ he promised as he turned toward the stairs.
He reappeared shortly in corduroys and leather puttees. Marcia was leaning on the loggia balustrade, idly watching the hills, while a diminutive stable-boy slowly led the horses back and forth in the driveway. Sybert helped her to mount without a word, and they galloped down the avenue in silence. He appreciated the fact that she would have preferred staying at home to accepting his escort, and the situation promised some slight entertainment. A man inclined to be a trifle sardonic can find considerable amusement in the spectacle of a pretty girl who does not wish to talk to him, but finds herself in a position where she cannot escape. As Sybert had been passing a very hard week, he was the more willing to enjoy a little relaxation at Marcia’s expense.