“The Boboli gardens are very beautiful,” volunteered Flo, willing to do her share to break a silence that might become embarrassing.
“Boboli? No—not this hora,” said Balotti, with a regretful smile.
“Goodness!” said Flo, “he thinks I’m asking him to take us there, and he says not at this hora. That’s hour, isn’t it, Patty?”
“Yes. She doesn’t mean we want to go there, but that it is beautiful,—bella,—bellissimo! See?”
“Si,” responded Balotti, repeating, without understanding.
“So pretty, you know,” Patty floundered on; “so green and trees, and flowers,—flora,—gracious, Flo, what is Italian for flowers, you ought to know!”
“I don’t,” said Flo; “but, look this way!” and Flo sniffed vigorously at an imaginary bouquet. Her dramatic instinct was so strong that her meaning was quite evident, and one could almost imagine she had beautiful flowers in her hands.
“Si, Si, Si!” exclaimed the gallant Balotti, and with an order in Italian for the driver to stop, he sprang from the carriage and flew over to a neighbouring flower stand. He returned with two huge nosegays which he bestowed upon the girls, with a voluble flow of Italian compliments.