“I am so sorry, Miss Florence.”
“Sorry, what for?”
“La signora is displeased with me.”
“My sister? Is she? Why, what have you been doing?”
Violante blushed, and with much confusion answered that they had been reading English poetry, and something in it made her cry. “Only a little, Miss Florence,” but the girls laughed and she had burst into tears, and Miss Venning had told her she ought to command her feelings better.
“Well, don’t let them get the better of you now,” said Flossy. “What was this dreadfully touching poem?”
“It was a play called Hamlet, Miss Florence, and he was angry with the girl who loved him.”
“The sentiment was not sufficiently disguised, as our old English teacher used to say,” said Flossy, laughing heartily. “Did you feel as if you might act Ophelia?”
“Signorina, it seemed too true for acting. It is not like an opera. It might be oneself. But I should not have cried at it.”
“No. School-girls don’t like sentiment. But, come, it doesn’t signify. My sisters are out. Come into the drawing-room and have some tea with me; and I want to sing something to you and ask your advice.” Violante followed gladly into the cheerful drawing-room, with its sunny flowery windows, and its look of feminine pleasantness. She sat down in a low easy chair and rested passively. She was tired of her own emotions; she wanted Rosa. Miss Florence was kind, and bright, and strong, but she did not dare to creep into her arms and lay her head on her shoulder—she did not dare even to cry over her troubles. Excellent discipline, doubtless, but, perhaps, the hardest that could have been devised for so dependent a creature.