I have an inclination toward fifteenth-century Italian. I
should place him there." He spoke absently, still staring at the rose.
"A dash--not an ill dash, of course--of what you might call the Borgia
... good and evil tied into a sultry, thunderous splendor."
Glenfernie bent a keen look upon him out of gray eyes. "An enemy might
describe him so, perhaps. I can see that such a one might do so."
"Ah, you're his friend!"
"Yes."
"Well," said Mr. Wotherspoon, straightening himself from the
contemplation of the roses, "there's no greater thing than to have a
steadfast friend!"
It seemed that an expedition had been planned, for a servant now
appeared to say that coach and horses were at the door. Mr. Touris
explained:
"I've engaged to show Mr. and Mrs. Goodworth our considerable town.
Mr. Wotherspoon, too, has a moment's business there. Alison will not
come, but Munro Touris rides along. Will you come, too, Glenfernie?
We'll have a bit of dinner at the 'Glorious Occasion.'"
"No, thank you. I have to get home presently. But I'll stay a little
and talk to Mrs. Alison, if I may."
"Ah, you may!" said Mrs. Alison.
From the porch they watched the coach and four away, with Munro Touris
following on a strong and ugly bay mare. The elm boughs of the avenue
hid the whole. The cloud continents and islands were dissolving into
the air ocean, the sun lay in strong beams, the water drops were
drying from leaf and blade.
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