Marcantonio Carantoni was in just such a position. He was more than contented, for he looked forward to much in the future that he had not yet attained, and he looked forward to it with certainty. His wife Leonora was trying hard to be as happy as he, but there had been a doubt--a cruel, hot little doubt--in her soul from the first. She had deceived herself--with the best intention--until she could hardly ever be sure that what she felt was genuine. She had asked questions of her heart until it was weary of answering them, and would as soon speak false to her as true.
And here ends the prologue of this story.
A few days after the arrival of the Carantoni establishment in Sorrento, Leonora was sitting alone on a terrace of the villa with a book and a great variety of small possessions in the way of needle-work, shawls, cushions, flowers, parasols, fans, and a white cat. Marcantonio was gone to the town alone, intending to buy more possessions; for Sorrento is famous for its silk-weaving and its exquisite carved work of olive wood, and Leonora loved knickknacks.
"I would give anything in the world for a sensation," she thought, as she looked out over the sea.
It was towards evening, and the water was as smooth as glass and tinged with red.
Marcantonio was right after all. It was very dull in Sorrento, with no one but one's husband to speak to,--and he had made such a fuss about the cook's illness. Of course, it was very beautiful and all that; but life with the beauties of nature is so very tiresome after a time. She longed for some of her friends,--even her mother, she thought, would be a relief. But no one had called, excepting some very proper people of the Roman set, who all had gout and rheumatism and a dictionary-ful of diseases, and were taking sulphur baths at Castellamare.
She was wishing with all her might that some amusing person would call, when, as though in answer to her thoughts, a servant brought her a card. Then she yawned slightly, supposing it to be some toothless old princess of Rome or some other wearisome bore. But as she looked at the name,--"Mr. Julius Batiscombe,"--she gave a little start and her light fingers touched her lace and ribbons, and her thick hair, and she said she would receive.