“Your Nina sounds a hundred times more entertaining than my Peppina,” remarked Mrs Maxwell. “She knows nothing, and breaks everything. But then she is in love, and when she looks in my face with her beautiful eyes, and mentions that fact as a reason for all my misfortunes, what am I to do?”
“Is her lover in Rome?” asked Mrs Brodrick, rather from politeness than interest.
“Yes. Every now and then he swoops down upon her, and she insists upon going out with him. I point out the inconvenience, and she cries, but goes. Then she comes back, and breaks more things. I wish he weren’t quite such a strong character.”
“What is his occupation?” said Teresa, amused.
“So far as I can make out, it is pulling down the kingdom. This keeps him exceedingly busy. He has no money to speak of, and a lame little brother to support.”
“Oh!” cried the marchesa, suddenly intent.
“What is that?” inquired her grandmother, as keenly.
“Why this stir?” said Mrs Maxwell, opening her blue eyes. “Are you two by any chance in the conspiracy?”
“Does he live under S. Pietro in Montorio? Is he called Cesare Bandinelli? And has he a history?” Teresa questioned breathlessly. Then she jumped up and closed the window to shut out the noise of the electric tram and of the men who were crying “O-olive—go-o-omberi!” with broad intonations. She came back exclaiming—“This is extraordinarily interesting. I know that Cesare, poor fellow!”
“I don’t think you ought to call him poor fellow, Teresa,” corrected Sylvia. “Mr Wilbraham thinks him a very dangerous man.”