‘Well,’ said Eleanor, with the judicial air of a connoisseur, ‘for one thing, he has a striking face. I don’t know whether you ever noticed it, but he has eyes exactly like that portrait of Filippino Lippi in the Uffizi. I kept thinking about it all the time I was talking to him—sleepy sort of Italian eyes, you know—and an American mouth. It makes an interesting combination; you keep wondering what a man like that will do.’
As Marcia made no comment, she continued:
‘He has an awfully interesting history. We met him at a reception last week, and Mr. Melville told me all about him afterward. He was born in Genoa—his father was United States consul—and he was brought up in the midst of the excitement during the fight for Italian unity. Politics was in the air he breathed. He knows more about the Italians than they know about themselves. He speaks the language like a native, and he never——’
‘Oh, I know what Mr. Melville told you,’ Marcia interrupted. ‘He likes him.’
‘Don’t most people?’
‘Ask your cousin about him. Ask Mr. Carthrope, the English sculptor. Ask anybody you please—barring my uncle—and see what you’ll hear.’
‘What shall I hear?’
‘A different story from every person.’
‘Well, really! He’s worth knowing.’
‘I detest him!’ Marcia made the statement as much from habit as conviction.