I observed, as the girl looked up, that her cheeks were just a bit too red and that her eyes had been slightly emphasized. They did not need it, either, for they were capital eyes to start with.
“And she is as good as she is beautiful,” the old lady went on, in a low tone of strict confidence. “And, you know, since she came here a real count has made love to her.”
“A count!” I exclaimed.
There was a touch of awe in her tone as she said, “Belongs to one of the oldest families in Italy!”
I cleared my throat and thought of death and funerals and comic supplements and such mournful things for safety.
“I want you to meet him at dinner,” the good soul went on. “Where are you stopping?”
“At the Grand Hotel.”
“We are near there, at the Pension Pirroni. You and Mrs. Potter must dine with us.”
I gradually separated myself from Mrs. Fraley and hastened to join my friends. I found them with startled looks in a group of the ancient marble gods and others who lived before the invention of trousers.
“If I were to assume the license of Hercules and stand up here on a pedestal, what do you suppose they'd do to me?” I whispered to Betsey.