“Violante, you talk a great deal of English, why cannot you learn how to call people’s names? Crichton; Spencer Crichton.”
“He should not have two hard names,” said Violante, with a little pout. “I would rather call him il signor Hugo.”
“Well, as you like,” said Rosa, laughing. “And he lives in a beautiful palazzo, with trees and a river?”
“Does he?” said Rosa, “I should doubt it exceedingly. I dare say he has a very nice house. There are no palaces, Violante, in England, except for bishops, and for the Queen; certainly not for bankers.”
“And what is a banker?”
“Well,” said Rosa, a little puzzled in her turn; “he takes care of people’s money for them; it is a profession.”
“And he is not noble?”
“No; but as he has this country-seat, I suppose he has a position somewhat equivalent to what we mean here by noble. You can’t understand it, dear; it is all different. Mr Crichton works very hard, no doubt, in his own country, and I suppose his long holiday will soon be over.”
Violante started, and as she stood behind her sister’s chair, she hid her face for a moment in her hands.
“But his brother is coming—his brother, who so loves art,” she said, after a pause.