“Not like you, what can you mean? Why should they not like you?”
“English people don’t like actresses.”
“Well, but you don’t suppose Mrs Tollemache has any prejudice of that sort?”
“She would not like Emily to do it.”
“Emily! Of course not. Young ladies like Emily don’t sing in public. She would not be a governess or do anything to get her living. But they would think it quite right for you. Why, you will have Mr Crichton and his brother to throw bouquets at you!”
“Yes!” exclaimed Violante, with sudden passion. “He will throw bouquets at me. He will ‘tell his friends I am pretty,’ and he will think—”
“He? Mr Crichton? Violante, what can it matter to you what he thinks?”
Violante shrank away from her sister, and covered her face with her hands.
“Violante,” cried Rosa, too anxious to pick her words, “don’t tell me you have been so silly as to think about him—that you have let yourself care for him.”
“Oh—I do—I do, with all my heart,” cried Violante, with all the fervour of her Italian nature, speaking from her shining eyes and parted lips.