When the Contessima, for that I discovered was her style and title, had detached her fashionable bird-cage veil from the brim of her large hat, I fell to observing her with some curiosity from my modest corner. She was no longer in her first youth—about twenty-eight, I should say—but she was distinctly handsome, in a rather hard-featured fashion.
When she was introduced to me, she bowed very stiffly, and said, "How do you do, Miss?" in the funniest English I had ever heard.
"It is so good of you to come to us," said the Marchesa, with her usual stateliness; "to leave your gay Florence before the end of the Carnival for our quiet Pisa. We cannot promise you many parties and balls, Costanza."
Perhaps Costanza had seen too many balls in her time—had discovered them, perhaps (who knows?), to be merely dust and ashes.
At any rate, she eagerly and gushingly disclaimed her hostess's insinuation, and there was voluble exchange of compliments between the ladies.
"Will you give Bianca a holiday for this week, Miss Meredith?" said the Marchesa, presently.
"Certainly, if you will allow it," I answered, saying what I knew I was intended to say.
Costanza looked across at me coldly, taking in the modest details of my costume.
"And when does the Marchesino arrive?" she asked, turning to his mother.
"Not till late on Thursday night."