"Hush!" she hissed, "you little fool!" Then to the crowd, "What does this mean?" she demanded sternly. "What does this mean?"
A young Italian, who stood at one side nursing his slashed knuckles, was the spokesman.
"Him—" with a wave towards the man on the floor—"he's Tony De Sil', and her"—the gesture included the hysterical girl—"She dance with Ton' all-a-time."
"And she?" The Lady Head looked toward the Italian girl whose stiletto she was holding gingerly between her fingers.
"Her?"—the narrator pointed a laconic forefinger. "She's Tony's girl."
When the weeping Caroline had been sent home in her father's carriage, and when the ambulance had creaked out through the gateway, the Lady Head turned to her little assistant.
"If there are any fatal results from this—this criminal bit of negligence," she stated coldly, "I shall hold you personally responsible. You should have informed me of this long ago. Remember, you have been here fifteen years!"
—Ida F. Treat.