Fanchette tossed her head.
“What an old bear, to be sure! I shall have to withdraw my patronage.”
“Do,” said Aquaviva. “It will be the better for my reputation.”
She would have retorted, only that she was intent on other things. As the couple came near, she ran to her mistress, and smoothed and fondled her with a privileged intimacy.
“Ah! you have been exploring, you bad demoiselle, careless, as always, of your poor Fanchette’s credit. Look at the moss stains on your skirt, and the flower crushed in your bosom! And the sun has caught your neck and face, too, naughty mistress.”
As she readjusted things with dainty fluttering fingers, she just glanced with an arch smile at Tiretta—a little telegraphic signal, full of comprehension and meaning. He looked away immediately.
“There, that will do, Fanchette,” said Isabella, flushing finely. “It is time we went home, is it not? What is grandfather doing there?”
“He is doing something horrible, disgusting. You will not like to see it.”
More to escape an embarrassment than from any awakened curiosity, Isabella walked on. Tiretta, dropping behind a moment, whispered in the maid’s ear:
“Little liar!”