Cutbill nodded again.
“The women, too, catch up the light delicate touch which the churchmen are such adepts in; and conversation is generally neater than elsewhere. In a fortnight or ten days hence, you 'll see this all yourself. How are you for Italian? Do you speak it well?”
“Not a word, my Lord.”
“Never mind. French will do perfectly. I declare I think we all owe a debt of gratitude to the First Empire for having given us a language common to all Europe. Neither cooking nor good manners could go on without it, and apropos of cooking, when will you dine? They are good enough to say here that my cook is the best in Rome. When will you let me have your verdict on him?”
Cutbill felt all the awkwardness that is commonly experienced when a man is asked to be his own inviter.
“To-day,” continued Lord Culduff, “we dine at the Duc de Rignano's; we have promised Lady Augusta for Friday; but Saturday, I believe Saturday is free. Shall we say Saturday, Cutbill—eight for half-past? Now, don't fail us. We shall have a few people in the evening, so make no other engagement. By-by.”
Cutbill muttered out his acceptance, and retired, half delighted with his success, and half distrustful as to whether he had done what he had come to do, or whether, in not approaching the subject, he had not earned a stronger claim to the possession of that “tact” which his Lordship had so much admired in him.
“I'm sure he's an old fox; but he's wonderfully agreeable,” muttered he, as he descended the stairs. It was only as he turned into the Piazzo di Spagna, and saw L'Estrange standing looking in at a print-shop, that he remembered how he had left the curate to wait for him, while he made his visit.
“I'm afraid, from your look,” said L'Estrange, “that you have no very good news for me. Am I right?”
“Well,” said the other, in some confusion, “I won't say that I have anything one could call exactly reassuring to tell.”