“You don’t mind that?” said Rosa, curiously.
“No!” with a half-surprised look in the soft pathetic eyes; “I am glad. Then father will not see when I am pale. It will be hidden.”
“Oh, my child, you will not look pale then. So, Zerlina, you want another bow on your apron; and then this great dress is off one’s mind. We must let father look at you.”
“Do you think he will say I look handsome enough?” said Violante, anxiously.
Rosa laughed. “I don’t know what he may say, but I am sure of what he will think. And besides, he is not the public. Thank you, Maddalena, we need not keep you now.” And, as the old woman departed, Rosa took the little muslin apron and began to sew a bright bow on it; while Violante stood by her side, manifestly afraid of injuring her costume by sitting down in it. She looked very pretty, as her sister had said, but her anxious, serious look was little in accordance with her gay stage costume.
“You see,” said Rosa, as she pinched up her loops of ribbon, “we have a great many friends. All the members of the singing-class will go, so you will not feel that you are acting to strangers.”
“I think Madame Tollemache will go,” said Violante.
“Of course, and her son, and Emily, and they will take Mr Crichton.”
A sudden brightness came over the girl’s soft eyes and lips, as she stood behind her sister’s chair.
“Rosa, mia,” she said, “you understand about England. What is it il signor—ah, I cannot say his name—does in his own country?”