“Good-evening,” said Mr. Dale. Violante stole up to him, and, pulling him so as to bring his ear nearer to her lip, whispered, “Talk to Papa, do,—and cheerfully; he is sad.”
She escaped from him as she said this, and appeared to busy herself with watering the flowers arranged on stands round the awning. But she kept her swimming lustrous eyes wistfully on her father.
“How fares it with you, my dear friend?” said the parson, kindly, as he rested his hand on the Italian’s shoulder. “You must not let him get out of spirits, Mrs. Riccabocca.”
“I am very ungrateful to her if I ever am so,” said the poor Italian, with all his natural gallantry. Many a good wife, who thinks it is a reproach to her if her husband is ever “out of spirits,” might have turned peevishly from that speech, more elegant than sincere, and so have made bad worse; but Mrs. Riccabocca took her husband’s proffered hand affectionately, and said with great naivete,—
“You see I am so stupid, Mr. Dale; I never knew I was so stupid till I married. But I am very glad you are come. You can get on some learned subject together, and then he will not miss so much his—”
“His what?” asked Riccabocca, inquisitively.
“His country. Do you think that I cannot sometimes read your thoughts?”
“Very often. But you did not read them just then. The tongue touches where the tooth aches, but the best dentist cannot guess at the tooth unless one open one’s mouth.—Basta! Can we offer you some wine of our own making, Mr. Dale?—it is pure.”
“I ‘d rather have some tea,” quoth the parson, hastily. Mrs. Riccabocca, too pleased to be in her natural element of domestic use, hurried into the house to prepare our national beverage. And the parson, sliding into her chair, said,—
“But you are dejected then? Fie! If there’s a virtue in the world at which we should always aim, it is cheerfulness.”