A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. His face was wreathed in smiles, his beringed hand was cordially outstretched. She understood. “I first saw you crossing the river Arno, after a spring rain had spoiled the day for everyone except the ducks. God must love me, for he has guided me here. ‘But if there is one, how in the world did this mystery lady of yours know of it?’ ‘That, Lucy, is precisely the point that has been exercising my mind,’ Gerald said, turning his eyes once more to the group of French exiles in the alcove.
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