Estelle came softly into the dark room and joined her; they leaned side by side.
Mi sono innamorato d’una stella, Sognai, Io t’amerò, one sweet and sentimental song succeeded the other.
Clotilde had entered too, on tiptoe, and stood listening, just behind the others.
“It is a serenade,” she whispered. “It is a compliment.”
A serenade!... Aurora thrilled with a pleasant surmise. There was only one person in Florence of whom she could conceive as offering her the compliment of a serenade. She listened with a new keenness of pleasure.
After the concert had prolonged itself through some dozen pieces–
380“You must invite them to enter,” whispered Clotilde, presumably versed in the ceremonial of such adventures, “and offer them something for their tired throats, a little wine....”
“Oh, you think we ought...?”
“But yes, it would be courtesy.”
“Go you, then, Clotilde, and show them in and order up the wine. We’ll be down in a minute.”