"I should have supposed," she said, "that he would have dined with the Chaplain at the second table."
"No," asserted the page boldly, "the Prince has ordered it."
When alone, the Prince seldom dined ostensibly in public; but often appeared masqued at the third table, which was that of the actors and singers. He had given no orders at all about Mark. The arrangement was entirely of the Signorina's making, who desired that he should dine with her. It was a bold stroke; and an hour afterwards, when the Court Chaplain discovered it, measures were taken to prevent its recurrence—at least for a time.
In whatever way this arrangement came to be made, however, the result was very advantageous to Mark. In the first place, it was not formidable. The company took little notice of him. Signor Carricchio made grotesque faces at others, but not at him. He sat quite safe and snug by the Signorina, and certainly stared with all his eyes, as she had said. The long, dark, aquiline features of the men, the mobile play of humorous farce upon their faces, the constant chatter and sport—what could the German peasant boy do but stare? His friend taught him how to hold his knife and fork, and how to eat. The Italians were very nice in their eating, and the boy picked up more in five minutes from the Signorina—he was very quick—than he would have done in weeks from the Chaplain.
He was so scared and frightened, and the girl was so kind to him, that his boy's heart went out to her.
"What shall I call you, Signorina?" he said, as dinner was over. "You are so good to me." He had already caught the Italian word.
"My name is Faustina Banti," she said, looking at him with her great eyes; "but you may call me 'Tina,' if you like. I had a little brother once who called me that. He died."
"You are so very kind to me, Tina," said the boy, "I am sure you must be very good."
She looked at him again, smiling.