So no identity of name came to rouse a suspicion of any connection between their new acquaintance and their old one. There was scarcely any family likeness between Hugh’s pale, regular face, grave and rather massive, and Arthur’s bright, tanned skin, and pleasant though unremarkable features. Besides, Rosa and Violante did not know Hugh’s face without a look of interest and purpose, nor his light, deep-set eyes without the ardour of an eager hope; while, when they saw Arthur, his dark-lashed eyes were absent and languid, and his mouth, though he smiled often, set into sad lines when he fell silent.
But one young English gentleman was sufficiently like another in foreign eyes, and the association of ideas was close enough to make Rosa anxious as to the effect of this encounter on her sister.
“Madame Cellini is so fond of company she cannot pass anyone by,” she said, rather petulantly, when the two girls were alone.
“She is very fond of talking,” replied Violante, “but I like her now that I am not forced to sing to her. And it would not have been kind not to ask Signor—what did you call him?—Pincher, to rest, when he looked so hot and tired.”
“All Englishmen like to tire themselves out,” said Rosa.
“You told him we were not English, Rosa; that was not true.”
“My dear child, I could not tell him our family history—what did it matter? I daresay he thought us very odd; but I am not tired of solitude, even if Madame Cellini is.”
“Oh, no, nor I. I should like to stay here always.”
“Some time we must, I suppose, go back to Civita Bella.”
“Yes!” with a long sigh. “Rosa mia, I will be good and useful if I can. Perhaps father is dull without us.”