Instantly Aunt Carolina smiled and extended her hand.
"Oh! Why, we had almost given you up. I'm so glad you did not fail us. William has told me——"
"Wotever Bill says is right," interrupted the signor. "He's a white guy. Pleased t' meetcha."
Aunt Caroline's hand crumpled under the attack, but she suffered without wincing and turned to the bishop.
"Bishop, this is the sculptor of whom I spoke."
The bishop was staring. His eyebrows were rising. For an instant only he was studying Bill Marshall.
"Pleased t' meetcha, bish."
It was a greeting not according to diocesan precedents, nor was the shaking of hands that followed it, yet the bishop survived. "It is very interesting to know you, sir," he murmured, non-committally.
Aunt Caroline was devoting her moment of respite to a study of Signor Valentino. She knew, of course, that it was not polite to stare at a man's ear, or at his nose, but these objects held her in a sort of wondering fascination. In advance she had formed no clear picture of what a sculptor should be; he was the first she had met. Yet, despite her inexperience and lack of imagination, she was conscious that this sculptor did not match very closely even the hazy ideal that was in her mind.
Bill nudged the signor, and the signor suddenly remembered. He was expected to explain, which he could do readily. It was merely a matter of feinting for an opening. Ah—he had it.