“Yes; to our eyes. But, do you know, I rather think the Italians themselves can 39 tell the difference. I would rather trust Giuditta’s judgment than my own. Besides,” he added, after a long pause, during which he had been watching the expressive face of the child. “Besides,—there’s that Giovanni Bellini. That sort of thing doesn’t often stray into low society.”
At this juncture the tall Italian moved again into their neighbourhood, and stood, at a point where the awning had been drawn back, gazing, with a preoccupied air, out to sea.
Rising from his seat, Mr. Grey approached him, remarking abruptly, and with a jerk of the head toward Cecilia, “Florentine, is she not?”
“Sicuro,” was the grave reply; upon which the Count moved away, to be seen no more that evening.
As the Englishman rejoined them after this laconic interview, Blythe greeted him with a new theory.
“Do you know,” she said, “I used to think the Count was haughty and disagreeable, but I have changed my mind.” 40
“That only shows how susceptible you good Republicans are to any sign of attention from the nobility,” was the teasing reply.
“Perhaps you are right,” Blythe returned, with the fair-mindedness which distinguished her. “You know I never saw a titled person before, excepting one red-headed English Lord, who hadn’t any manners. I’ve often thought I should like, of all things, to know a King or Queen really well!”
“You don’t say so!” Mr. Grey laughed. “And what’s your opinion now, of the old gentleman, since he deigned to interrupt your conversation?”
“I believe he is unhappy.”