Chapter 16 - Page 2

la Branche's best black shawl was drawn about her plump and dimpled shoulders. Assuming a hollow tone, she inquired: "Do you see any other change in me?"

"Yes. And I rather like that way of doing your hair."

"Vittoria says I look like a picture of Sister Dolorosa, or something."

"Is Miss Fabrizi in?"

"In? How could she be out? Isn't she a dear, Norvin? I knew you'd meet some day."

"Does she play whist?"

"Of course not, silly. She's--nearly a nun. But we sat up in bed all night talking. Oh, it's a comfort to have some one with you at the last, some one in whom you can confide. I can't bear to--to soar aloft with so much on my conscience. I've confessed everything."

"What's to prevent her from catching the disease and soaring away with you?"

"She's a nurse. They're just like doctors, you know, they never catch anything. Is that hideous watchman still at his post?"

"Yes. Fast asleep, with his mouth open."

"I hope a fly crawls in," said the girl, vindictively; then, in an eager whisper: "Couldn't you manage to get past him? We'd have a lovely time here for a week."

Rilleau raised his voice in jealous protest.

"And leave me sitting on my throne? Never! I'm giving this box-party for you, Myra Nell."

"Oh, you could come, too."

"I respect the law," Norvin told her; but Lecompte continued to complain.

"I don't see what you're doing here at this time of day, anyhow, Blake, Have you no business responsibilities?"

"I'm a member of the Contagion Club; I've a right to be here."

"We were discussing rice, old shoes, and orange blossoms when you interrupted," the languid Mr. Rilleau continued. "Frankly, speaking as a friend, I don't see anything in your conversation so far to interest a sick lady. Why don't you talk to the yellow-haired nurse?"

"I intend to."

"Vittoria is back in the kitchen preparing my diet," said Myra Nell. "She's making fudge, I believe. I--I seem to crave sweet things. Maybe it's another symptom."

"It must be," Blake acknowledged. "I'll ask her what she thinks of it." With a glance at the slumbering guard he vaulted the low fence and made his way around to the rear of the house.

He heard Vittoria singing as he came into the flower-garden, a low-pitched Sicilian love-song. He called to her, and she came to a window, smiling down at him, spotless and fresh in her stiff uniform.

"Do you know that you're trespassing and may get into trouble?" she queried.

"The watchman is asleep, and I had to speak to you."

"No wonder he