But Signor Mattei was romantic only on one point.
“He is, no doubt,” he said, “a fascinating youth, and respectable, since he is your uncle’s friend; but, figlia mia, his income? Ah, you cannot live on air!”
“Mr Fairfax is not a youth, father,” said Rosa, slightly hurt; “he is five-and-thirty, and he has a very good income, which he will explain to you, himself, to-night, if you will allow him. I shouldn’t think of living on air.”
Violante had not a strong sense of the ludicrous; but even she could hardly help smiling a little at Rosa’s aggrieved air, and could not help wondering how her father would have managed to coerce her resolute, independent sister, even if he had been dissatisfied with “the fascinating youth’s” prospects, as he replied:
“Then, Rosina, if that point is clear, I will consent.”
“Thank you, father.”
“And will Violante bake a crust of bread for her poor old father when you have left us?”
“Yes, father. I— My voice is come back. I can sing now.”
Signor Mattei’s whole face changed from its sentimental air to a look of fiery enthusiasm. He started to his feet, and caught her hands.
“Your voice, child? All your voice—every note? Let me hear, let me hear.”