“And she is also, of course, what you call—well born?” the Duchess threw out, as if the question were superfluous and its answer foregone.
“She is what we call a gentlewoman,” answered Lucilla.
“To be sure—of course,” said the Duchess, “but—but without a title?”
“In England titles are not necessary to gentility—as I believe they are in Austria,” Lucilla mentioned.
“To be sure—of course,” said the Duchess. “Her parents, I think, are not living?”
“No—they are dead,” Lucilla redundantly responded.
“Ah, so sad,” murmured the Duchess, with a sympathetic movement of her bonnet. “But then she is quite absolute mistress of her fortune? What a responsibility for one so young. And to crown all, she is a good pious Catholic?”
“She is a Catholic,” said Lucilla.
“The house, from here, is really imposing—really signorile,” the Duchess declared, considering it through her silver-framed double eyeglass. “There are no houses like these old Florentine villas. Ah, they were a lovely race. You see, my son is very much interested in her. I have never known him to show so much interest in a girl before. It is natural I should wish to inform myself, is it not? If you will allow me, dear Lady Dor, to make you a confidence, I should be so glad to see him married.”
“Yes,” said Lucilla. “I suppose,” she hesitated, “I suppose it is quite possible for him, in spite of his belonging to a reigning house, to marry a commoner?”