"No," said he. "It is not etiquette. The new-comer pays the first call."
"That is Italian etiquette," said she. "But my cousin is an
Englishman."
"Nun fa nien'e. He is in Italy. He must conform to the customs of the country," insisted Commendatore Fregi, in the dialect of Sampaolo, twirling his fierce old moustaches, glaring with his mild old eyes.
"No," said Susanna, softly, firmly; "we must stretch a point in his favour. He is English. We will adopt the custom of his country. So you will call upon him. I wish it."
"Ph-h-h," puffed the Commendatore, fanning himself with his cap.
"Well—?" he questioned.
Susanna, in her diaphanous light-coloured frock, leaned back, smiling. The Commendatore fanned himself rapidly with his cap, and waited for her instructions.
"You call upon him, you introduce yourself as an old friend of the family. 'As a boy, I knew your grandfather, your grandmother, and I was a playfellow of your father's.'"
She threw back her head, pouted out her lips, and achieved a very admirable counterfeit of the Commendatore's manner.
"You ask the usual questions, pay the usual compliments. 'Can I have the pleasure of serving you in anyway? I beg leave to place myself at your disposal. You must not fail to command me'—and patati and patata."
"You are an outrageous little ape," said the Commendatore, grinning in spite of himself. "You would mimic the Devil to his face."