“Oh, the Magnifique,” Mellin answered carelessly. “I suppose everybody that one knows stops there. One does stop there, when one is in Rome, doesn't one?”
“Everybody go' there for tea, and to eat, sometime, but to stay—ah, that is for the American!” she laughed. “That is for you who are all so abomin-ab-ly rich!” She smiled to the Italian again, and both of them smiled beamingly on Mellin.
“But that isn't always our fault, is it?” said Mellin easily.
“Aha! You mean you are of the new generation, of the yo'ng American' who come over an' try to spen' these immense fortune'—those 'pile'—your father or your gran-father make! I know quite well. Ah?”
“Well,” he hesitated, smiling. “I suppose it does look a little by way of being like that.”
“Wicked fellow!” She leaned forward and tapped his shoulder chidingly with two fingers. “I know what you wish the mos' in the worl'—you wish to get into mischief. That is it! No, sir, I will jus' take you in han'!”
“When will you take me?” he asked boldly.
At this, the pleasant murmur of laughter—half actual and half suggested—with which she underlined the conversation, became loud and clear, as she allowed her vivacious glance to strike straight into his upturned eyes, and answered:
“As long as a little turn roun' the hill, now. Cavaliere Corni—”
To Mellin's surprise and delight the Italian immediately descended from the victoria without the slightest appearance of irritation; on the contrary, he was urbane to a fine degree, and, upon Madame de Vaurigard's formally introducing him to Mellin, saluted the latter with grave politeness, expressing in good English a hope that they might meet often. When the American was installed at the Countess' side she spoke to the driver in Italian, and they began to move slowly along the ilex avenue, the coachman reining his horses to a walk.