She was very smart, and prettier than ever. She said her husband must be in London; she had had no news from him for more than a month. “And how did you know I was still here?” Cæsar asked her.
“Through Kennedy. He wrote to me. He is a good friend. He talked a lot about you in his letters.”
Cæsar thought he noticed that Susanna talked with more enthusiasm than ordinarily. Perhaps distance had produced a similar effect on her to what wondering about her had on him. Cæsar looked at her almost passionately.
From the terrace one could see the tragic ruins of the Palace of the Cæsars; broken arcades covered with grass, remains of walls still standing, the openings of arches and windows, and here and there a pointed cypress or a stone pine among the great devastated walls.
Far away one could see the country, Frascati, and the blue mountains of the distance.
As it was already late, the group of Susanna’s American friends decided to return by carriage.
“I am going to walk,” said Susanna in a low tone. “Would you like to come with me?”
“With great pleasure.”
They took leave of the others, went down the garden road, which was decorated on both sides with ancient statues and tablets, and issued on the Via di Santa Prisca, a street between two dark walls, with a lamp every once in a while.
“What a sky!” she exclaimed.