“It 's very pleasant, padre. It is part of a case I ordered for the Onslows, but their butler shook the bottle when bringing it to table, and they begged me to get rid of it.”
“These wines are not suited to Italy generally,” said the canon; “but Florence has the merit of possessing all climates within the bounds of a single day, and even Chambertin is scarcely generous enough when the Tramontana is blowing!”
“Well, have you become better mannered? May I venture to come in?” cried Nina, appearing at the doorway.
“'Venga pure! Venga pure!'” growled out the canon. “I forgive thee everything. Sit down beside me, and let us pledge a friendship forever.”
“There, then, let this be a peace-offering,” said she, taking the wreath of flowers from her own head and placing it on the brows of the padre. “You are now like the old Bacchus in the Boboli.”
“And thou like—”
“Like what? Speak it out!” cried she, angrily.
“Come, come, do, I beseech you, be good friends,” interposed Jekyl. “We have met for other objects than to exchange reproaches.”
“These are but the 'iras amantium.' boy,” said the priest; “the girl loves me with her whole heart.”
“How you read my most secret thoughts!” said she, with a coquettish affectation of sincerity.