David Rossi rose to go. Without lifting his head, he had been conscious
that during the latter part of the King's speech many eyes were fixed
upon him. Playing with his watch-chain, he had struggled to look calm
and impassive. But his heart was sick, and he wished to get away
quickly.
A partition, shielding the door of the corridor, stood near to his seat,
and he was trying to get round it. He heard his name in the air around
him, mingled with significant trills and unmistakable accents. All at
once he was conscious of a perfume he knew, and of a girlish figure
facing him.
"Good-day, Honourable," said a voice that thrilled him like the strings
of a harp drawn tight.
He lifted his head and answered. It was Roma. Her face was lighted up
with a fire he had never seen before. Only one glance he dared to take,
but he could see that at the next instant those flashing eyes would
burst into tears.
The tide was passing out by the front doors where the carriages and the
reporters waited, but Rossi stepped round to the back. He was on the way
to the office of his newspaper, and dipping into the Corso from a lane
that crossed it, he came upon the King's carriage returning to the
Quirinal. It was entirely surrounded by soldiers, the military commander
of Rome on the right, the commander of the Carabineers on the left, and
the Cuirassiers, riding two deep, before and behind, so that the King
and Queen were scarcely visible to the cheering crowd. Last in the royal
procession came an ordinary cab containing two detectives in plain
clothes.
The office of the Sunrise was in a narrow lane out of the Corso. It
was a dingy building of three floors, with the machine-rooms on the
ground-level, the composing-rooms at the top, and the editorial rooms
between. Rossi's office was a large apartment, with three desks, that
were intended for the editor and his day and night assistants.
His day assistant received him with many bows and compliments. He was a
small man with an insincere face.
Rossi drank a cup of coffee and settled to his work. It was an article
on the day's doings, more fearless and outspoken than he had ever
published before. Such a day as they had just gone through, with the
flying of flags and the playing of royal hymns, was not really a day of
joy and rejoicing, but of degradation and shame. If the people had known
what they were doing, they would have hung their flags with crape and
played funeral marches.