“Don't notice him,” Mrs. Norris whispered to her daughter, as both turned away. “It's that odious Wilton who used to come and see father.”
I wondered how it was going to be possible for me to rescue Mrs. Mullet under the circumstances of our covenant of non-interference. We turned and left this splendid memorial to the great apostle Paul.
Count Carola was waiting for us at the step of the car, and kissed the hands of Mrs. Norris and Gwendolyn, and assisted them to their seats. I was presented to him, and am forced to say that I didn't like the cut of his jib. Still, I'm very particular about jibs, especially the jib of a new boat.
“Poor dear boy!” Mrs. Norris exclaimed, as we drove away. “There's a lover for you!”
“He grows handsomer every day,” said Gwendolyn, in a low, lyrical tone.
“It's his suffering,” Mrs. Norris half moaned.
“Do you really think so?” the young lady sympathized.
“Hold on, Juliet!” said I. “If I were you I'd shoo him off the balcony. He's a perfect lily of a man, but he won't do—too generous, too devoted! We have men like him in America. There their titles are never mentioned in the best society, and their persons are often cruelly injured. For a badge of rank they have adopted a kind of liver-pad which they wear often over one eye or the other. Of course on Broadway they haven't the romantic environment of Italy, and are subject to all kinds of violence.”
Mrs. Norris flashed a glance of surprise at me.
“You are a cruel iconoclast,” said she. “He belongs to one of the best families in Italy.”