‘It’s nothing serious,’ Marcia laughed in response to the maid’s anxious face; ‘I just made up my mind to go for a ride, and in the first flush of energy I rang louder than I meant. It’s a great thing, Granton, to get your mind made up about even so unimportant a matter as a horseback ride.’
‘Yes, miss,’ Granton agreed somewhat vaguely as she knelt down to help with a boot.
‘How in the world do those soldiers in the King’s guard ever get their boots on?’ Marcia asked.
‘I don’t know, miss,’ said Granton, patiently.
Marcia laughed. ‘Send word to the stables for Angelo to bring the horses in fifteen minutes. I’m going to take a long ride, and I must start immediately.’
‘Very well, miss.’
‘Immediately,’ Marcia called after her. In dealing with Angelo reiteration was necessary. He was an Italian, and he had still to learn the value of time.
She tied her stock before the glass in a very mannish fashion, adjusted her hat—with the least perceptible tilt—and catching up her whip and gloves, started out gaily, humming a snatch of a very much reiterated Neapolitan street song.
‘“Jammo ‘ncoppa, jammo jà . . .
Funiculì—funiculà.”’