“Ridiculous, that is the word,” Spoleto cried.
“Be silent, Spoleto. My dear child, you do not understand.”
“I understand enough. You say you are my father. I think I ought to know my father. I—I do not mind knowing you. But this—it is absurd and insulting. I will not hear any more about it. This gentleman—I know nothing about him.” She surveyed Spoleto with disdain. “I do not wish to make his acquaintance.”
“Thank you very much,” Spoleto cried.
“Hilda! Be pleased to remember that you are now to do your duty as my daughter. I do not permit disobedience.”
“It’s no use to talk so,” said Miss Crowland. “I am not a baby.”
His Highness, whose grey hair was becoming dishevelled, made a violent gesture. “English! She is as English as her mother.”
“Oh. If you are going to say things against my mother I will go,” said Miss Crowland. “You came from my mother, sir. I should like to speak to you.”
Reggie bowed and opened the door for her. As they went out he heard Spoleto say in French, “Do you see, my uncle, this does not do,” and then a storm. The house of Ragusa was divided against itself in throes.
On deck, Miss Crowland seemed to have some difficulty in making up her mind what to say. “Does my mother know about this?” she broke out at last.