I suppose it lingers yet in some odd old-world corners; it is within the crumbling walls of this Villa, for instance. My husband is too devoted to me. I fear to have a wish because I know he cannot rest till it is gratified. If I look here, or there, his dear eyes imitate mine; if I rise, he starts up; if I walk on, he follows me. When he takes my hand he holds it as if it were a flower with a delicate bloom upon it; when he speaks to me he lowers his voice like one whispering into some rare shell that would break from too much sound. And all for one who is half a school-girl and half a woman, and so little of either.
[A man is heard singing a characteristic Italian air to the accompaniment of a mandolin.]
Mrs. Stonehay.
What’s that?
[Leslie runs to the balustrade and waves her hand.]
Leslie.
That’s Pietro Donigo, one of my husband’s protégés. Dunstan wishes him to sing to me every day.
Mrs. Stonehay.
[Sotto voce.] Good gracious, what next! What is there in this girl to be sung at!