‘It is wonderful!’ said the Duchess, after a long pause.
‘So, indeed, it strikes me,’ said the Count. ‘Mark, even to the flattening of the upper lip, how the resemblance holds.’
‘What age are you—are you a Roman—what is your name?’ asked the Duchess, in a hurried but careless manner.
‘My name is Fitzgerald. They call me here Gherardi, for some of the race took that name in Italy.’
‘So that you talk of blood and lineage, boy?’ asked she haughtily.
‘I am of the Geraldines, lady, and they were princes!’ said the boy, as proudly.
‘Came they from Scotland?’ she asked eagerly. ‘No, madam, they were Irish.’
‘Irish! Irish!’ muttered she twice or thrice, below her breath; then, as her eyes caught sight of his features suddenly, she started and exclaimed: ‘It is nigh incredible! And how came you to Italy?’
With that brevity which distinguished Gerald when speaking of himself, he told of his having been a scholar with the Jesuits, where some—he knew not exactly which—of his relatives had placed him.
‘And you left them; how, and wherefore?’ inquired the Duchess.