"How long have you known--that woman?" Kitty asked him, suddenly, after
a pause broken only by the playing of the wind with the sail.
Cliffe laughed.
"The Ricci? Why do you want to know, madame?"
She made a contemptuous lip.
"I knew her first," said Cliffe, "some years ago in Milan. She was then
at La Scala--walking on--paid for her good looks. Then somebody sent her
to Paris to the Conservatoire, which she only left this spring. This is
her first Italian engagement. Her people are shopkeepers here--in the
Merceria--which helped her. She is as vain as a peacock and as dangerous
as a pet panther."
"Dangerous!" Kitty's scorn had passed into her voice.
"Well, Italy is still the country of the knife," said Cliffe,
lightly--"and I could still hire a bravo or two--in Venice--if I wanted
them."
"Does the Ricci hire them?"
Cliffe shrugged his shoulders.
"She'd do it without winking, if it suited her." Then, after a
pause--"Do you still wonder why I should have chosen her society?"
"Oh no," said Kitty, hastily. "You told me."
"As much as a
friend cares to know?"
She nodded, flushing, and dropped the subject.
Pages:
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588