Mary Gowd stood up, making gestures, hat in hand.
"Clotted cream, with strawberries," she said in English, an unknown language, which always roused Tina to fury. "And a steak—a real steak of real beef, three inches thick and covered with onions fried in butter. And creamed chicken, and English hothouse tomatoes, and fresh peaches and little hot rolls, and coffee that isn't licorice and ink, and—and—"
Tina's dangling earrings disappeared in her shoulders. Her outspread palms were eloquent.
"Crazy, these English!" said the shoulders and palms. "Mad!"
Mary Gowd threw her hat on the bed, pushed aside a screen and busied herself with a little alcohol stove.
"I shall prepare an omelet," she said over her shoulder in Italian. "Also, I have here bread and wine."
"Ugh!" granted Tina.
"Ugh, veal!" grunted Mary Gowd. Then, as Tina's flapping feet turned away: "Oh, Tina! Letters?"
Tina fumbled at the bosom of her gown, thought deeply and drew out a crumpled envelope. It had been opened and clumsily closed again. Fifteen years ago Mary Gowd would have raged. Now she shrugged philosophic shoulders. Tina stole hairpins, opened letters that she could not hope to decipher, rummaged bureau drawers, rifled cupboards and fingered books; but then, so did most of the other Tinas in Rome. What use to complain?
Mary Gowd opened the thumb-marked letter, bringing it close to the candlelight. As she read, a smile appeared.