CHAPTER VII
The moment the two sisters were alone, the elder said quickly in a low voice, leaning across the table:
“We had a long talk with Signor Rauzzini, my dearest Fanny. I could not, of course, tell you before mother.”
“You mentioned his name; but were you discreet?” said Fanny. “I think mother felt that you were going too far when you referred to his eyes. Mother most surely believes that the dark eyes of an Italian form a topic that should not be discussed except by our elders, and then only with bated breath and a fearful glance around lest a word should be overheard.”
“His eyes—you know his eyes, Fanny?”
“Oh!” said Fanny, with an inflection that was between a sigh and a moan.
“You should have seen them while he spoke of you,” said Esther. “Talk of flashes of lightning!—Dear child, it seemed so singular to us that a mite like you should inspire a grand passion in such a man. You are not angry with us, I know, but it was so indeed.”
“Why should I feel angry with you for feeling just what I do myself, only more intensely,” said Fanny. “’Tis one of the greatest mysteries of life—the only mystery of life that I have yet faced—why a man who is as handsome as an archangel, and who possesses a voice that an archangel might envy, should so much as glance at an insignificant young woman like myself! Oh! ’tis no wonder that the notion amused you, dear Hetty.”