But suddenly afterwards, in a flash, he felt this unique and noble sentiment, this Christian pity, destroyed within him, as if it could only give him one supreme moment of heroism. He felt all the old sentiments rise again in his mind, contending among themselves--anger, suffering, love and jealousy, and he was seized again in their power without guide or will.
Maria Guasco was proceeding minutely to the completion of her toilette. That morning she was wearing a cloth dress of maroon colour, cut in the English fashion, through the jacket of which a blouse of white Irish lace was to be seen; the full skirt in big pleats discovered the neat feet shod in black kid. A large straw hat, with a circlet of red roses and a thin veil, was placed over the chestnut hair, affording a glimpse of its waves over the forehead, temple and neck. In her simple dress without ornaments, and in its exact lines, she looked enchantingly young. She said to Chiara, who was hovering round offering her gloves, parasol, and purse--
“Let your master know that I am ready and waiting for him here.”
Meanwhile she buttoned her yellow deerskin gloves and verified the contents of her purse.
“The master begs Your Excellency to oblige him with your presence in the study,” said Chiara on returning in a low voice.
Maria frowned slightly, and for an instant the colour left her cheeks. Then, as if her will predominated immediately, she proceeded towards her husband’s study, and not a shadow of her recent emotion appeared on her recomposed face.
Seated behind his desk Emilio was writing a letter and smoking a cigarette. He did not raise his head.
“Well, Emilio,” asked his wife in a soothing voice, standing in the middle of the room, “aren’t you dressed for the meet?”
“No,” he replied, raising his head from his letter absently, “I am not dressed.”
“Wasn’t this the hour?” she continued gently; “ten o’clock, I think.”
“Yes, ten o’clock,” and he lowered his head, resuming his writing.
Maria’s gloved hand nervously clutched the onyx knob of her parasol.
“Well, well,” she asked again, with a certain insistency. Emilio let his pen fall, throwing it on the table, pushed the letter aside, and leaning back in his chair regarded his wife for a long time earnestly without speaking.