“Oh——?” Lucilla doubted, her eyebrows going up. Then, on reflection, “It certainly looks,” she admitted, “as if Prince Bertrandoni were very much taken with her. But so many men have been that, poor dears,” she remembered, sighing, “and you know with what fortune.”
“Ah, but in this case I'm thinking of her,” Ponty eagerly discriminated. “It's she who seems taken with Prince Bertrandoni. I half believe she's actually in love with him—and, anyhow, I wouldn't mind betting she'd accept him. Unberufen.”
Lucilla's soft face wondered. “In love with him?” she repeated. “Why should you think that?”
“Oh, reasons as plentiful as blackberries,” Ponty answered. “The way in which she brightens up at his arrival, absorbs herself in him while he's here, wilts at his departure, and then, during his absence, mopes, pines, muses, falls pensive at all sorts of inappropriate moments, as one whose heart is hugging something secret and bitter-sweet. Of course, I'm only a man, and inexperienced, but I should call these the symptoms of a maid in love—and evidences that she loves her love with a B. However, in love or not, it's plain she likes him immensely, and I'll bet a sovereign she's made up her mind to marry him if he asks her.”
“Oh, he'll ask her fast enough,” Lucilla with confidence predicted. “It's only a question of her giving him a chance.”
Ponty shook his wrinkled brow. “I wish I were cocksure of that,” he said. “You see, after all, he's not as other men. On one side he's a semi-royalty, and there are dynastic considerations; on t'other side he's a Wohenhoffen, and, with every respect for the house of Adgate, I'm doubting whether the Wohenhoffens would quite regard them as even birthish. Of course, she has money, and money might go a long way towards rose-colouring their visions. Still, their vision is a thing he'd have to reckon with. No—I'm afraid he may continue to philander, and let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' unless she gives him a good deal more than a mere chance—unless she gives him positive encouragement—unless, in fine, by showing the condition of her own heart she sweeps the poor fellow off his feet. You question whether she's in love with him. Dear child, why shouldn't she be? 'Tis Italy, 'tis springtime, and whither should a young girl's fancy turn? Besides, she has red hair.”
“Springtime?” protested Lucilla. “I thought it was September.”
“So it is,” agreed her brother, flourishing his cigarette. “But September in Italy is proud-pied April under a pseudonym. The April winds are passional for bachelors and dames. Besides, she has red hair.”
“Red hair?” protested Lucilla. “Her hair is brown.”
“So it is,” agreed her brother, with a second flourish. “But the larger includes the less. I did not say she was a red-haired woman. A red-haired woman is red, a black-haired woman is black, and there's an end on't; expect no mystery, no semi-tones, no ambiguities. I said she had red hair, and so she has, since her hair is brown. A brown-haired woman is everything, is infinite variety, is as elusively multi-coloured as a dying dolphin. A brown-haired woman's hair is red, black, blue, green, purple, amber, with their thousand intermediates, according to mood and tense. Oh, give me a brown-haired woman, and surprises, improbabilities, perplexities, will never be to seek. A brown-haired woman has red hair, and red hair means a temperament and a temper. No, I honestly think our little brown-haired friend, in just so far as her hair is red, is feeling foolish about Bertram, and I look hopefully forward (unberufen) to the day when her temper or her temperament will get the better of her discretion, and let him see what's what. Then (unberufen) his native chivalry will compel him to offer her his hand. Thank goodness she has money.”