II
Mme. de la Cueva had been crying and Marise guessed that she was getting ready to have a new husband. She seemed to have had bad luck in husbands. The one who had just been put to the door was the second Marise had known in the four years of her study with the pianist, and there had been at least two before that. It was a terrible grief to her always to find out that she no longer cared for the one she had; but she faced the facts with courage, allowing herself no dissembling, no bourgeoise timidity. The old one disappeared, and in a few months a new one was there.
"Good-day, my child," said the pianist affectionately, pulling Marise down to kiss her on both cheeks. "No lesson to-day nor to-morrow," she spoke solemnly, the tears in her eyes.
She began to cry openly.
Marise sat down by her, startled out of her own mood of resentment. "Why, dear Madame de la Cueva, why?" she asked, "What has happened?"
"I am going to America," said the older woman. "Georges Noel and I are booked for a concert tour of the world. We will be married in Australia."
The inevitable first thought of the magnificent egotism of youth was for itself, "Why, what shall I do?" cried Marise aggrieved.
Mme. de la Cueva did not resent this. She never resented anything which she recognized as natural. And this seemed to her pre-eminently natural and proper. She took Marise's hand in hers tenderly, maternally.
"It is for your good, my dear child, the change, though I know how you will miss me. You need some one else. A year with the old Visconti will be the making of you."
"The old Visconti!" cried Marise, "but he lives in Rome!"
"But it is perfectly possible for other people to live in Rome too! My dear child, a year in Rome at your age … it will be the making of you! You will always bless your poor old de la Cueva who secured it for you. Youth, talent, beauty,
