“Well, figlia mia,” said Signor Mattei, somewhat meekly, for Rosa was the domestic authority, and was at that moment chopping up an excellent salad for him, and pouring on abundance of oil with her own hands. “But it is hard that my daughter should be such a little fool.”
“So it is,” said Rosa laughing, “but she will be good now. Now then, Violante,” opening the bedroom door.
There lay Violante, her sweet round lips smiling, her soft eyes serene, her own fears and Rosa’s warnings driven into the back-ground by the excitement of her confession, and by the thought of how Hugh had thanked her for her song.
She threw her arms round Rosa with a hearty, girlish embrace, quite different from the despairing clinging of an hour before.
“Yes, I am coming. My hair? Oh, father likes it so,” brushing it out into its native ripples. “There, my red ribbon. Now I will be buona—buonissima figlia.” And she ran into the sitting-room and up to her father, pausing with a full, sweeping curtsey.
“Grazie—mille grazie—signore e signori,” she said. “Is that right, padre mio?”
And her father, seeing her with her floating hair, her eyes and cheeks bright with the excitement that was making her heart beat like a bird in its cage, might well exclaim—“Child, you might bring the house down if you would. Come and kiss me, and go and sing ‘Batti batti,’ before you have your supper.”