“Why then do you tell me this country pleases her?”
The old woman left her place. She had promised Christina, who detested the sense of being under the same roof with her husband, that the latter’s visit should be kept within narrow limits; and this movement was intended to signify as kindly as possible that it had better terminate. “It’s the common people who please her,” she returned with her hands folded on her crumpled satin stomach and her ancient eyes, still keen for all comedy, raised to his face. “It’s the lower orders, the basso popolo.”
“The basso popolo?” The Prince stared at this fantastic announcement.
“The povera gente,” pursued his friend, amused at his dismay.
“The London mob—the most horrible, the most brutal—?”
“Oh, she wishes to raise them.”
“After all, something like that’s no more than I had heard,” said the Prince gravely.
“Che vuole? Don’t trouble yourself; it won’t be for long!”
Madame Grandoni saw this comforting assurance lost upon him; his face was turned to the door of the room, which had been thrown open, and all his attention given to the person who crossed the threshold. She transferred her own to the same quarter and recognised the little artisan whom Christina had, in a manner so extraordinary and so profoundly characteristic, drawn into her box that night at the theatre—afterwards informing her old friend that she had sent for him to come and see her.
“Mr. Robinson!” the butler, who had had a lesson, announced in a loud colourless tone.