Rosa sat down by the table, with a red spot on each cheek, and took up her knitting.
“Yes, father, that is just what I wish. I want to know what has happened.”
“Am I a cruel father? Do I beat or starve you, or do I work all day for my ungrateful children?”
“I think you were cruel to Violante, father, when you called her deceitful.”
“Violante is a little fool. Now, once for all, Rosa, I will have no disputes. This very day I have promised her to Vasari.”
“Father!” cried Rosa, in high indignation. “It is one thing to forbid her engagement to Mr Crichton, and quite another to insist on her marrying Vasari. I would not stand it.”
“But you, figlia mia, have the sense to decide for yourself,” said Signor Mattei, with a little flattery inexpressibly provoking to the downright Rosa. “Your sister is a child, and cannot judge. Consider. This young Englishman goes home. The proud ladies of his house would see him mouldering in his grave before they blessed his betrothal.”
“I don’t believe they would be so ridiculous! And he is quite independent. But I agree with you, father, that it would be a very unfortunate thing if he married her without his friends’ consent, and what we could not agree to. But he speaks confidently of being able to gain it.”
“He speaks!” echoed Signor Mattei, with scorn. “He speaks! He goes home—he sees his folly. Flattered by the flowers of his own aristocracy will he remember Violante?”
“I don’t believe he has anything to do with the aristocracy! Of course, father, I see all the risks—they are fearful ones; but the other way is such certain misery,” said Rosa, faltering. “How will she bear it!”