"Fie," said Violante, with arch reproach, for she knew her father's humours too well to interpret his horrible sentiments literally,—"fie on your consistency, Padre Carissimo. Do you not trust your secret to me?"
"You! A kitten is not a cat, and a girl is not a woman. Besides, the secret was already known to you, and I had no choice. Peace, Jemima will stay here for the present. See to what you wish to take with you; we shall leave to-night." Not waiting for an answer, Riccabocca hurried away, and with a firm step strode the terrace, and approached his wife. "Anima mia," said the pupil of Machiavelli, disguising in the tenderest words the cruellest intentions,—for one of his most cherished Italian proverbs was to the effect that there is no getting on with a mule or a woman unless you coax them,—"Anima mia, soul of my being, you have already seen that Violante mopes herself to death here."
"She, poor child! Oh, no!"
"She does, core of my heart,—she does, and is as ignorant of music as I am of tent-stitch."
"She sings beautifully."
"Just as birds do, against all the rules, and in defiance of gamut. Therefore, to come to the point, O treasure of my soul! I am going to take her with me for a short time, perhaps to Cheltenham or Brighton. We shall see."
"All places with you are the same to me, Alphonso. When shall we go?"
"We shall go to-night; but terrible as it is to part from you,—you—"
"Ah!" interrupted the wife, and covered her face with her hands.
Riccabocca, the wiliest and most relentless of men in his maxims, melted into absolute uxorial imbecility at the sight of that mute distress. He put his arm round his wife's waist, with genuine affection, and without a single proverb at his heart. "Carissima, do not grieve so; we shall be back soon, and travelling is expensive; rolling stones gather no moss, and there is so much to see to at home."