Curious to watch how her face went slowly white.
She turned and looked at Mr. Wilkins as if trying to remember
him.
"Oh no. On the contrary--"
She managed to smile. "I'm going to have a visitor," she said,
holding out the telegram; and when he had taken it she walked away
towards the dining-room, murmuring something about lunch being ready.
Mr. Wilkins read the telegram. It had been sent that morning
from Mezzago, and was:
Am passing through on way to Rome. May I pay my respects this
afternoon?
Thomas Briggs.
Why should such a telegram make the interesting lady turn pale?
For her pallor on reading it had been so striking as to convince Mr.
Wilkins she was receiving a blow.
"Who is Thomas Briggs?" he asked, following her into the dining-room.
She looked at him vaguely. "Who is--?" she repeated, getting her
thoughts together again.
"Thomas Briggs."
"Oh. Yes. He is the owner. This is his house. He is very nice.
He is coming this afternoon."
Thomas Briggs was at that very moment coming. He was jogging
along the road between Mezzago and Castagneto in a fly, sincerely
hoping that the dark-eyed lady would grasp that all he wanted was to
see her, and not at all to see if his house were still there. He felt
that an owner of delicacy did not intrude on a tenant.
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