"She is a ministering angel," responded Signor Alfero, simply.
The prince stood by, white to the lips.
"What time she can spare from her work—and she works as hard as any seamstress in the city!—she spends amongst the poor. There is not a beggar in our streets who does not know her; not a blind man whose ears do not eagerly greet her footfall; not a sick child whose face does not 'lighten' at the sight of her smile. She is an artist—and an angel!" and the old man's lips quivered.
As if he could bear it no longer, the prince stood upright and approached Blair, his face white and set with the effort to suppress his thirst for vengeance.
"Referring to our discussion, Lord Ferrers," he said significantly, "are you still of opinion that we Italians have taken but a low place in the scale of nations?"
Blair started and looked up at him in surprise, then, understanding that the prince was going to make pretense of a quarrel, he replied:
"I cannot alter my opinion, even for so distinguished an Italian as Prince Rivani."
"That means that, as an Englishman, you regard us with contempt, my lord?"
Blair shrugged his shoulders.