“Fuori.”
“Mrs. Wingate, then?”
“Fuori.”
“There’s only one road—the one by which I came up, and I haven’t heard any carriage drive away; if ‘Fuori’ means out, you are not telling the truth; they are not out, they are here.”
The Italian smiled, still amiably.
“Is there any one here who speaks English?” said Paul, in despair.
“Ingleese? Si.” She went off with the same serene expression. Before long she appeared again at a door below, which she left open; Paul could see a bare stone-floored hall, with a staircase at the end.
Presently down the staircase came a quick-stepping little old woman, with a black lace veil on her head; she came briskly to the door. “I hear you wish to speak to me?”
“You’re an American,” said Paul. “I’m glad of that.”
“Well, you’re another, and I’m not glad of it! Americans are limited. Besides, they are Puritans. My being an American doesn’t make any difference to you, that I know of.”