Cesano gasped. It had never crossed his mind that a foreigner could understand a word of the language of Alsander.
"Then you understand me, sir? Then you don't mind?"
"I do rather. Especially since you have said I didn't matter. Particularly so since you called me a pink-faced lout of an Englishman."
"Forgive me, sir," said Cesano, with intensive courtesy. "I could not have imagined that you understood my words. It is so rarely that we Alsandrians have the pleasure of hearing foreigners speak our tongue. And as you have understood me, you have understood that I was only in jest. And if there was a little offence, you must pardon me. I am a lover. We lovers are so hasty. It is natural to be jealous of all men when one is a lover. Of course, for me to have been jealous of you, even for an instant, was purely ridiculous."
"I pardon you certainly, Signor Cesano," said Norman. "I pardon you with all my heart, but...."
Norman felt uncomfortable. He heartily wished that Peronella would go for her passion-walk with Cesano, and leave him to his too long neglected pipe. But, despite all his Englishman's vague terror of the foreigner, he had all a brave man's objections to hauling down his colours, especially in the face of so ridiculous an opponent as the Italian opera personage who stood there gesticulating at him, and whose politeness was thrice as offensive as his rudeness. So he dwelt a second on the word "but" and glanced at Peronella, who came to his aid only too gladly, and with consummate impudence took up the tale.
"Normano desires to say"—murmured the young lady in a very sweet voice—"that you have plenty of cause for jealousy."
"Cause for jealousy! What do you mean by cause for jealousy? Of him?"
"Ah! he still finds the language a little difficult to speak, you know. Even you who are native do not seem to have mastered it completely, Cesano. Yes, of course, of him!"
"But what do you mean—what do you mean? What do you dare to mean?" cried Cesano, crescendo.