"Yes, you silly girl—the Pope,—Rose!"
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say."
"But you can't."
"Nonsense. Of course I can."
"Well I mean of course you can see Him the same as other people do: but you'll be in the crowd, and He—— I can't understand you at all this morning. Let's look at Sant's letter—— How vilely the man writes! Like a—— You don't mean to say you'll join these people? M-ym-ym. Yes, I see the game.—Yes.—But d'you think you really could?—Well: if you like the idea still, it's worth trying anyhow.—Silly little mother! Why I believe you're in love with Rose even now. Ah, you're blushing. Mother, you look a dear like that!"
"Amelia, don't be stupid. Mind your own business."
"Oh I'm not going to interfere. You needn't be jealous of me. I'm sure I never saw anything particular in Him myself."
They spoke as though they were alone. Alaric went quite unnoted. He folded his napkin and rose from the table.
"A—and, mother," he mooed, slowly, with a slight hesitation, in a virginal baritone voice, resonant and low; "if you go to Rome, don't be nasty to Mr. Rose?"