No; the Signorine had not seen a puppet show. If they properly should see one then they would see one. It was for Gaspero to judge. Very well, then. He would come for them at half past eight that evening—at least, he added with proud modesty, if the Signorine would not object to his wearing his best clothes. His festa garments, and not the uniform of his calling.
Object! On the contrary, they would be flattered. Gaspero settled back to his duties with the triumphant expression of the artist who by sudden inspiration has added the crowning touch to his picture. He composed the days for them on his mental palette, and this one he plainly considered one of his masterpieces.
Yesterday had been a failure. Jane and Peripatetica had waked full of plans, but before the breakfast trays had departed they were aware of a heavy sense of languor and ennui which made the pleasantest plans a prospect of weariness and disgust.
“If you sit around in a dressing-gown all day we’ll never get anything done,” suggested Peripatetica crossly, as Jane lounged in unsympathetic silence at the window.
“Considering that you’ve been half an hour dawdling over your hair and have got it up crooked at last, I wouldn’t talk about others,” snapped Jane over her shoulder without changing her attitude.
A strained silence ensued. Peripatetica slammed down a hand mirror and spilled a whole paper of hairpins, which she contemplated stonily, with no movement to recover them.
A hot wind whirled up a spiral of dust in the street.
“My arms are so tired I can’t make a coiffure,” wailed Peripatetica.
Jane merely laid her head on the window sill and rolled a feeble, melancholy eye at the disregarded hairpins.
The wind sent up another curtain of hot dust.