“My papa is Italian—mama was half English, and half French.”
Was? Then her mother must be dead. That would account for the empty limousine, and the strange independence of the child.
“Mama is in New York, now, we think,” she remarked. “I am to join her when I am ten; that was arranged for, in the deed of separation.”
“Separation?” said I.
“There is no divorce in Italy,” said the little creature, shrugging her shoulders. “Papa is a Catholic, though not, of course pratiquant. They have been separated since I was seven.”
“Then who—who——” I wanted to ask who looked after her, but such a form of words seemed singularly inappropriate. “Who looks after your papa’s house?” I found at last.
“We are in hotels, most of the time, papa and I, and my maid, Carlotta, but in the holidays—les grandes vacances—we go to the country somewhere—villegiatura—and there is a lady then, always.”
Her grave eyes looked at me. “A different one,” she explained, “each time.”
Her very complete understanding of the status held by the “ladies” was implicit in her manner, but that struck me less poignantly than did her philosophical acceptance of all that they stood for.
The grey limousine came into sight, and she made an amiable little sign to the chauffeur.