“I’ve been puzzling over a dilemma,” she said, “an excessively perplexed one.”
“Yes? Go on,” said I.
“I’ve been wondering whether I’d better marry Ciccolesi, or retire into a convent.”
“Ciccolesi!” I cried, in astonishment, in dismay. “Marry Ciccolesi! You!”
“The Cavalière Ciccolesi. You’ve met him here on Mondays, A brown man, with curly hair. He’s done me the honour of offering me his hand. Would you advise me to accept it?”
“Accept it?” I cried. “Good Lord! You must be—have you lost your reason? Ciccolesi—that automaton—that cardboard stalking-horse—that Neapolitan jackanapes! You—think of marrying him!”
I could only walk up and down the room and wave my hands.
“Ah, well,” said she, “then I see there’s nothing for it but the other alternative—to retire into a convent.”
I halted and stared at her.
“What—what on earth has happened to make you talk like this?” I demanded, in a sort of gasp.