The girl started as if she had been stung.
“The Cianchetti! She is a viper.”
Nina nodded her head, and began to wash her lettuces.
“Perhaps. But Cesare did not always think her a viper.”
“Oh!” Peppina flung out her hands, flung her rival and the whole world on one side. “If he spoke to her, I could kill him. But he will not.”
“It seems to me that when we are going to do good to everybody, there are always a few we mean to leave out. Perhaps, in that way we should all be left out. Who knows?” remarked the philosopher, still nodding like a mandarin. The girl’s socialism had received a check. Nina glanced at her and turned the subject. “The English signore, who will marry our signorina, his leg is not well yet, after all these long days. It is because he travelled on a Tuesday—an unlucky day.”
“Ah!” said Peppina indifferently. She was always alert when Wilbraham was spoken of, because Cesare had ordered her to bring him what news she could, but she was well on her guard against betraying special interest to her present companion, and she no longer talked to Mrs Maxwell. “So it is true they are to be married?”
“True? Did I not tell you?”
“I had forgotten,” lied the girl. “She is pretty.”
“As pretty and as innocent as the angels. And our marchesa, who has grown suddenly very rich, would give her everything in the world if she wished it.”