"Of course!" snapped the excited little American. "I'm one of a party of eight. We're all school-teachers And this guide"—she waved a hand in the direction of a rapt little group standing in the agonising position the ceiling demands—"just informed us that the ceiling is by Raphael. And we're paying him ten lire!"
"Won't you sit here?" Mary Gowd made a place for her. "I'll tell you."
And she did tell her, finding a certain relief from her pain in unfolding to this commonplace little woman the glory of the masterpiece among masterpieces.
"Why—why," gasped her listener, who had long since beckoned the other seven with frantic finger, "how beautifully you explain it! How much you know! Oh, why can't they talk as you do?" she wailed, her eyes full of contempt for the despised guide.
"I am happy to have helped you," said Mary Gowd.
"Helped! Why, there are hundreds of Americans who would give anything to have some one like you to be with them in Rome."
Mary Gowd's whole body stiffened. She stared fixedly at the grateful little American school-teacher.
"Some one like me—"
The little teacher blushed very red.
"I beg your pardon. I wasn't thinking. Of course you don't need to do any such work, but I just couldn't help saying—"