“I drink nothing but water, but allow me to take the liberty to sit down. The servant who attends to the chambers has left the house, and I’ve done nothing but go up and down stairs all day. It tries my old legs, and we can expect no quiet night.”
A single candle lighted the little room. Belotti, who had leaned far back in his chair, opened his clenched hands and slowly began:
“I spoke this morning of the Hoogstraten race. Children of the same parents, it is true, are often very unlike, but in your little country, which speaks its own language and has many things peculiar to itself—you won’t deny that—every old family has its special traits. I know, for I have been in many a noble household in Holland. Every race has its own peculiar blood and ways. Even where—by your leave—there is a crack in the brain, it rarely happens to only one member of a family. My mistress has more of her French mother’s nature. But I intended to speak only of the signorina, and am wandering too far from my subject.”
“No, Belotti, certainly not, we have plenty of time, and I shall be glad to listen to you, but first you must answer one question.”
“Why, sir, how your cheeks glow! Did you meet the signorina in Italy?”
“Perhaps so, Belotti.”
“Why, of course, of course! Whoever has once seen her, doesn’t easily forget. What is it you wish to know?”
“First, the lady’s name.”
“Anna.”
“And not Isabella also?”