"How curious!" she exclaimed, examining the contrivance.
"It is the music," put in the Signora pleasantly, "of our Femme
Orchestre. She is ill. We were forced to leave her yesterday at La
Mesle. To-morrow she will play again. The Contessa will hear her,
perhaps?"
Philidor breathed gratefully. A firmer hand than his now controlled their destinies. Olga searched the Signora's face, which was as innocent as that of the bambino.
"Grazia, Signora," she returned politely; "perhaps I shall."
Philidor accompanied her to the gate, reassured and jocular.
"How long are you going to persist in this foolishness?" she asked at last irritably.
"Who knows?" he laughed. "I think I've struck my proper level. Did you see my posters?" he asked, pointing proudly. "Great, aren't they?"
"They're disgusting," said Olga.
He smiled good-humoredly. "That's too bad. I'm sorry. I thought you'd like 'em."
She only shrugged contemptuously.