“Yes,” frowned Ruth, “I should very much like to suppress your devouring curiosity; I should like extremely to reduce you to a state of unremunerative silence, torpor, on that verily sterile topic. And, moreover, so far as I can see, the Royal Incident may now be billeted closed, for weal or for woe.”
“One can never be quite sure about these Royal Incidents,” her tormentor persisted, “that's the lark about 'em—they're never closed. For sheer pig-headed obstinacy give me a Crown Prince. Our friend Bertram is capable of letting his Queen Mamma in for a deal of trouble in view of present circumstances, if she should, as she's likely to do—want now to marry him off to some Semi-Royalty or German Grand Duchess or another.”
“Si puo,” riposted Ruth with hauteur, “I withdraw myself in advance from the competition. And I should like, please, to be spared any more allusions to the subject.”
But here Lucilla, who had been sipping her tea and worshipping the view, interrupted them:
“Do please cease from wrangling,” she implored. “Hold your breaths both of you—and behold!”
A haze all golden,—an impalpable dust of gold,—filled the entire watch-tower of the Heavens. Florence, twice glorified, lay bathed in yellow light that filtered benignantly upon roofs and gardens, played, glanced, upon Duomo, Campanile, and Baptistry. The Arno had become a way of gold. Webs of yellow gauze, spun across the streets and reflected by a thousand windows, made, among the many gardens, a burnished background for the twigs and branches of dark aspiring cypresses, glossy leaved ilexes.
Ruth and Pontycroft held their breaths, and, for a moment, there was a silence.
“I wonder,” Lucilla said at length,—she gave a little soft sigh of satisfaction,—“I wonder what Prince Bertrandoni has done with Balzatore.... Taken him, do you suppose, to reign over the dogs of Altronde? I miss that dog sadly.”
“Balzatore?—Oh,” said Ponty, “Balzatore is throning it at the Palazzo Reale.... He has a special attendant who waits on him, sees to his bodily comforts; prepares his food, takes him for his walks,—for of course Bertram is far too involved in Court functions, too tied by etiquette and the fear of Anarchists to go for long solitary rambles; and Balzatore bullies the servants, one and all, you may be sure. Dogs, even the best of 'em, are shocking snobs. In a measure Balzatore is enjoying himself. It hardly requires a pen'orth of imagination to be positive of it. And,” Pontycroft continued, “I hear that the Palazzo Bertrandoni has been leased for a number of years to an American painter. By the way, it seems that Bertram's bookcases, which, saving your presences, I grieve to state, were filled with very light literature—the writings of decadent poets, people who begin with a cynicism”—Pontycroft paused, hesitated for the just word.
“A cynicism with which nobody ends!” Ruth interjected.