“I’ve found you then at last,” said her ladyship, recovering fast. “Robbins, go and tell that wretched Italian porter creature I will not pay him another penny. No, say soldi, or scudi, which you like. It’s a gross imposition.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Justine,” continued her ladyship, “you understand the language?”
“No, my lady, not Italian.”
“Then speak to him in French, it will impress the man. Go and see that Robbins is not imposed upon. Now, Robbins, mind and be firm. This is not London.”
“No, milady.”
“And don’t lose any more luggage.”
“No, my lady,” said Robbins; and he left the room with Justine.
“Luggage, indeed,” he growled; “all this row about a sandwich-box, and she left it in the rack herself.”
“Nevaire mind her, Rob—bain,” said Justine; “take him coolly.”