“But, excuse me, are you not English?”
“Not exactly. I was brought up in England. I did not mean to be uncivil to English tourists, but you know they do rather spoil a place for the natives.”
“Tourists always do,” said Arthur. “I don’t know, though, what else I can call myself.”
“I suppose tourists are people who travel for pleasure, and not because they are obliged.”
“Well, I am not obliged to travel, certainly.”
“Then you are a tourist,” said Rosa, brightly. “But then you come alone, and an English stranger is rare enough in Caletto to be very welcome. Is it not so, madame?” repeating her words in Italian.
“Oh, as welcome as shade in summer. I have lived in your smoke, sir, and I do not wonder you all escape from it.”
“I am not prepared to admit that we never see the sun,” said Arthur, who all this time was wondering much who his entertainers might be. Rosa, with the address and appearance of a well-bred English lady, completely puzzled him, more especially as he supposed her to be the Mademoiselle Mattei to whom Madame Cellini had referred, and whom he never dreamed of identifying with the silent, childish-looking girl beside him. They were very amusing, out-of-the-way sort, of people, and the scene was wonderfully lovely and picturesque; but he was tired, and admiration was an effort; so he soon rose, and with very courteous thanks prepared to leave them. Madame Cellini accompanied him to the steps to point out the way, and said when she returned: “Ah, I have practised my English. I told him my name. Doubtless he will have heard it, and his—is—ah—Spinchere—Pinchere.”
“Pincher!” said Rosa, with an involuntary accent of disappointment: “That is an English name, certainly.”
“It is not pretty,” said Violante, thinking in her own mind that Spencer Crichton far exceeded it.