“If your marchesa is rich, I would have chosen her if I had been the Englishman.”
“She might not have said yes,” returned Nina with a snort. “She has had enough of what you all think the most wonderful thing you can get. Eh-h-h-h-h, my Pietro was not the worst, though he will need many masses to give him a little ease, that is certain; but after he had been to the wine-shop—(Fernanda, figlia mia, slip out and buy some fresh ricotta for the signora, it pleases her)—and I had to do my work with a black eye and a swelled face, ecco!”—Nina’s eyebrows, shoulders, hands, shot up expressively—“I do not want another Pietro. And our marchesa is like me.”
“Did he beat her?” asked Peppina, stretching herself and yawning. She was still thinking of Elena Cianchetti, and she wished to get back and brood upon Nina’s words, but she reflected that the best way of binding Cesare to herself was to be useful to him. She loved him passionately, and would have been unscrupulous towards any one who stood between them.
“Those people do not give black eyes. They strike at hearts, and that hurts worse.”
“Yes,” said the girl comprehendingly, looking at the older woman, and surprised that such knowledge had come to her. “Yes, it does. But the signorina, she does not fear?”
“The English are different.”
“Yes, they are cold—hard,” cried Peppina passionately. “They go on their way without caring. Yes, that is what—”
She stopped. She had been going to quote Cesare, and he had always warned her to keep his name out of the way when she was trying to pick up information for him. But, quick as she was, Nina was quicker, and had no difficulty in reading what had so nearly escaped her lips. It made her angry.
“It is easy to call white black,” she said sharply.
“And they have voices—ee-ee-ee—like little canary birds,” mimicked the girl contemptuously. Her own voice was harsh, and the other flung a withering glance at her.