Page:The little blue devil (IA littlebluedevil00mackiala).pdf/147

He was glad he had worked his passage from Australia, because it gave him something to start on; he would not touch those savings, and a little money was necessary, though here no one had much. He was lucky at the Circolo too, though he kept, a tight rein on himself, it would not do to lose his head; he was not the only man in Rome who was gambling on no capital at all! It was fun, he thought, and all quite new. He sat up very straight as a sudden thought came to him. . . . “Why, I suppose I never was so near to my father’s life before. What a beastly idea! . . . I know what started it—old Colonel Foscari’s recognising me as Gaston Ste. Croix’ son—‘the picture of Ste. Croix at twenty-four, but better-looking.’ H’mph! That lie was put in as a consolation. If I look as old at twenty-one as my respected father did at twenty-four—when I think of the life he led—I must only suppose that I’m not wearing well. . . . I feel fit enough, but I don't want to look like him. Nobody can say I have soft white hands, anyhow.”

He looked at those scarred brown members, clenching and unclenching them. “Stronger than his, too, thank God. Not a gentleman’s hand, these Italians would say, and, by Jove, they’re right too—ugly———”

Suddenly he saw Liane’s face as she bent to them, and all his thoughts were blotted out in a quick rush of pain. He did not blame himself for that affair, but he never thought of it if he could help doing so. Only he had not the sort of mind that can forget easily. He set his teeth and swung his thoughts round to Rome again—to the Contessa Yolanda Gasparri, whose husband was not congenial, to the letter he wanted to write to Alison—but there would not be time for that before Paolo arrived with the horses. And it was a good day for a ride.

Paolo was late. He had bitten his cigarette till it was unsmokable. He threw it away and walked across the room.