"Si."
"But you wouldn't betray her for money, Pietro?"
"No!" energetically.
Pietro might be loyal; still, O'Mally had some shadow of doubt.
"La Signorina is very beautiful," irrelevantly. "Ah!" with a gesture toward the heavens. "And if she isn't a princess, she ought to be one," slyly.
"Zitto! She come!" Pietro got up with alacrity, pocketing his pipe, careful that the bowl was right side up.
She was as daintily fresh in her pink frock as a spring tulip; a frock, thought O'Mally, that would have passed successfully in any ball-room. She was as beautiful as the moon, and to this bit of Persian O'Mally added, conscious of a deep intake of breath, the stars and the farther worlds and the roses close at hand. Her eyes were shining, but her color was thin. O'Mally, for all his buffoonery, was a keen one to read a face. She was highly strung. Where would they all land finally?
"I have been looking for you, Mr. O'Mally," she said.
"At your Highness' command!"
Pietro, hearing this title, looked from one to the other suspiciously.