"This canaglia!" said Miss Stellenthorpe, snapping her finger and thumb and becoming several degrees more cosmopolitan than usual.
"But who—what—je vous le demande—who is this Dickenson ... que vient-elle-faire dans cette galère? Ecco! My Lily! Mais c'est rigolo, voyons!"
It was always a little difficult to be adequate when replying to Aunt Clo.
"She is looking after me professionally—she's been properly trained."
"Ahimé!" Aunt Clo sighed gustily, her eyes upturned to Heaven.
"I don't like her," Lily confessed. "She tires me very much; she talks such a lot, and really what she says is never worth hearing."
There was actual relief in putting into words the thoughts that she had so often suppressed in her own mind.
"Basta! I understand, my child. Enough. You lie there, like a trampled flower, with this thing—this inferior, third-rate machine—rattling above you! But of what is Nicholas, ce bon Nicholas—of what is he thinking?"
"He arranged it on purpose for me—he was thinking of me," said Lily eagerly. "He thought she would be more of a companion than just an ordinary nurse. We know her family, and she was to be here more or less as a friend."
"Et patati et patata," said Miss Stellenthorpe scornfully. "Leave this to me, little one. I understand the Dickenson type very well."