“She is Signor Mattei’s daughter?” said Hugh.
“I will tell you all about her, Mr Crichton,” said Emily. “Signorina Rosa—that’s her sister—brings her to talk Italian with me. But some time ago they found out that she had a wonderful voice, and so she is to go on the stage. She is to make her first appearance next Tuesday, as Zerlina in ‘Don Giovanni;’ but the odd thing is that she hates it, she is so shy. Fancy hating it, I wish I had the chance!”
“Emily, my dear!” ejaculated her mother. “A couple of nights will rub off all that,” said Mr Tollemache, “even if it is genuine.”
“Genuine!” cried Emily. “For shame, Charles. She cannot help it, and even singing in the class has not cured her. It is quite true, isn’t it, Mr Crichton?” turning to Hugh.
Hugh paused for a moment, and—Jem could hardly believe his eyes—blushed, as he answered decidedly, “Yes, but she is more afraid of her father than of the public.”
“Dear me,” said James, “this sounds very interesting. And she is a beauty, too, Hugh?”
“I don’t know if you would consider her so. I do, undoubtedly!” said Hugh, with a sort of desperate gravity.
“Very unlikely acquaintance for old Hugh,” thought James. “See if I submit to any more criticisms about my mixed society. Is she very young?” he said aloud.
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs Tollemache. “You see, the circumstances are altogether peculiar. These two sisters are most excellent girls, and knowing their antecedents, and having them here as occasional companions for Emily, I could not, I cannot suppose that anything would ever accrue to cause me to repent the arrangement.”
There was a peculiar emphasis in Mrs Tollemache’s manner of making this remark, and it was accompanied by a little blush and nervous movement of her knitting needles.